Compline
by akatolstoy
Summary: Alternate Season 2: Free will, fate, chance, or divine intervention? Sydney, Vaughn, Jack, Dixon, Will and Francie deal with the consequences of Irina's reapperance and the revelation of a second prophecy--COMPLETE
1. Author's Note

Title: Compline  
  
Author: akatolstoy,   
  
Rating: R  
  
Genre: S/V Romance/Angst, Alt-Season 2  
  
Distribution: Please email me for permission.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, or any of its characters. It all belongs to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, ABC, Touchstone, etc.  
  
Spoilers: entire 1st season, some spoilers for season 2 & 3  
  
Feedback: Please read and respond. I am eager for feedback!  
  
Summary: alternate Season 2—"If insight into one's own destiny, much less the destiny of all of humankind, can be gained, it is done slowly and torturously, at great cost, and more often than not, understood only in hindsight. If one wants to know the heart of another person, the journey is even more arduous, the process of discovery of far greater importance than the knowledge derived." Sydney, Vaughn, Jack, Dixon, Francie and Will deal with consequences of Irina's reappearance and the revelation of a second prophecy.  
  
For Linda, whose courage and indomitable spirit will always inspire me  
  
------------------------  
  
Now that Compline is--finally--complete, I want to thank everyone who took the time to review and send me emails. My writing has had to take a back seat to real life health issues over the past year, so your encouragement and extra support means a lot to me. I am very fortunate to have so many patient, loyal readers!  
  
New readers might be asking themselves how relevant a fan-fic that took its impetus from the Season 1 cliff-hanger is now that we have officially ended Season 3 of Alias. My answer is this: Starting in Season 2, the writer's began to assassinate Vaughn's character in order to provide "dramatic" tension for the series that culminated with the revelation that Vaughn had married someone else shortly after Sydney's abduction. In Season 3, the assassination was virtually complete and Vaughn became almost unrecognizable: petty, indecisive, and petulant, unworthy of Sydney's love or our sympathy. Compline is for everyone who misses the sensitive, strong, ethical man we saw in Season 1 who truly was Sydney's ally and had faith in a true and abiding love.  
  
This story is the first installment of what I hope will be a four-part epic, using the Divine office as an underlying structure. The four parts will be entitled Compline, Matins, Nones, and Vespers. Unlike Compline, I will not post Matins until it is complete or almost complete, so that I don't torture my readers with long gaps between updates. So please know that I am continuing to work, even if I don't post for awhile.  
  
I can't thank Alliecat, Sirona7, and Claudia enough. They have given me wonderful feedback on Compline. I have discussed pacing, tone, phrasing, characterization, plot development with them, and they have each pushed me to become a better writer. Compline has truly been a labor of love, and I have been honored by my association with these three wise, beautiful, and giving women.  
  
I would also like to state how deeply honored I am by Sirona7's generosity in lending me the indubitable Mrs. Zhang for "Risk." Mrs. Zhang is Sirona7's creation, and appears in her series of Jack POV vignettes: "Backward," "Associations," "ID," "Confrontations," and "Between." If you haven't read these superb stories, RUN, don't walk, to my "favorite authors" list and look them up. You will not be disappointed! She has been my touchstone for all things related to Jack Bristow. No one writes Jack better.  
  
I will never be able to express all that I owe Alliecat, friend, muse, confidante.  
  
Just a few facts for those of you interested in my research on Brittany and Breton culture. I wanted Vaughn and Sydney to meet up in France, but since Souris had already set her incredible story, "Une Nuit," in Fleury, I started searching for a new location. An isle off the coast of Brittany seemed ideal. There is no Île Mariette. I made it up, but it is based on the Île D'Ouessant and Île Molene that I mention in the chapter. I accessed an Breton-English dictionary online and found several websites that gave me information about the Breton island culture by punching Île D'Ouessant into Google. I don't actually know Breizh, so if anyone finds any mistakes I should correct, let me know.  
  
Speaking of language help, thanks to Froggie who corrected my French. If you look back at "Reunion Part I," you will see that Vaughn's French dialog now reads: ""Ne pleure pas. Ça va aller. On est ensemble, mon amour. Je suis là. Ne pleure pas. Je t'aime."  
  
The information I give on the Ordre de Saint-Michel in "Haven" is accurate and jives remarkably well with the Rambaldi timeline established by the show. However, don't expect to see the Delorme crest on Michael Vartan's upper arm. MV's tattoo only inspired the tattoo Vaughn has in Compline.  
  
The e.e. cummings poem Irina quotes to Jack in "Recollections" is poem 149 in his Collected Poems, 1922 – 1938. The line "i carry your heart" engraved in Jack's wedding ring is from the first line of a poem which can be found on p. 156 of e. e. cummings: a selection of poems, Harvest, 1965. It is the most beautiful love poem I know, and I had it engraved in the wedding ring I gave my husband.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
akatolstoy 


	2. Revelations

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This fan-fic is a companion piece to "The Tricky Thing About Trust" and "One Small Year" also archived on fanfic.net.  
  
The title refers to a series of prayers meant to be said before sleep.  
  
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love's sake. Amen --The Common Book of Prayer  
  
-----------------  
  
"Mom?" Sydney gasped, as the figure emerging from the shadows revealed itself.  
  
"Sydney, how lovely you've grown!" Irina whispered, crossing over to her daughter and touching her cheek softly. "I've watched you for so long. I've seen the agent you've become, but never in these long years have I had a chance to see you face to face!"  
  
Her mother's touch felt cool, light, and familiar. Sydney began to search her face for signs of the woman she had known--the woman who had soothed her to sleep with lullabies, rocked her while reading story books, and clasped her in her arms when she returned home from school. There were faint lines around this woman's eyes and mouth that Sydney had not associated with the woman who had been her mother, but the warm brown eyes, the expressive eyebrows, the straight, aquiline nose and full mouth were the same.  
  
"Mom?" Sydney repeated, her voice, even more tremulous.  
  
"Yes, Sydney. It is I," Irina stated simply. "But, this was not how I imagined we'd meet. Fate has been very unkind to both of us. It has made us enemies, when my only wish was that we could be together, working side by side. But your father and Arvin Sloane have corrupted you. I should have foreseen that eventuality. I'm sorry."  
  
"Corrupted me? Corrupted ME?" Sydney exclaimed, hot, angry tears filling her eyes, so that she could hardly see the woman standing before her. "Look at me! You've had me handcuffed, you've kidnapped and tortured my friend, and someone I love has most likely died because of what you have done!" her voice rose with anger and gained strength with every word. "You were the one who left! You were the one who betrayed us! How could you? How could you be my mother and have killed those agents? How could you let your entire marriage to my father be a sham? I'd accuse you of betraying your country, but I don't even know what country you truly work for!"  
  
Irina stepped back and sighed, in no way surprised by Sydney's outburst, but still saddened by it.  
  
"I am not working on behalf of a single country, Sydney. Everything I have done--everything I will do--is for the safety and security of the entire world. Let me ask you something. Why do you think Arvin Sloane is so obsessed with Rambaldi and his inventions?"  
  
Sydney swallowed. "He believes all of Rambaldi's devices combine to form a weapon of mass destruction. Once he--or rather, SD-6--possesses this weapon, he can keep it or sell it to the highest bidder."  
  
Irina smiled. "Perfectly true. Now, tell me, do you think Russia's or the United States' desire for the Rambaldi device is any different than Sloane's?"  
  
"Of course!" Sydney cried. "The point is to keep the weapon away from anyone who wishes to use it against them, not to use it themselves!"  
  
Irina gazed at her daughter and shook her head. "How can you have been a spy for so long and not have realized the truth? You've played the game, but you've lost neither your naiveté nor your patriotism, I see. You still believe governments exist to serve and protect the rights of their citizens," she intoned bitterly.  
  
For the first time, Sydney detected a cold, cruel glint in her mother's eye. Irina frowned, and Sydney could see that over the years this had become a habitual expression. She began to watch her mother even more warily.  
  
"Tell me something else," Irina continued. "Which country has been the only nation to use a nuclear weapon against another country?"  
  
Sydney's mouth went dry, and she felt as if she were being examined by a stern and exacting professor. "The United States dropped a series of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to force the Japanese to surrender and thus end World War II," she replied in a hoarse voice.  
  
"That in itself should prove my argument that the United States' motives are not as pure as you would like them to be. It proves that even America will use weapons of mass destruction if provoked. Do you still feel that Rambaldi's weapon would be safe in the hands of the American government?" Irina's smile turned brittle. "Do you know how the arms race between America and Russia really started?"  
  
Sydney shook her head, her eyes expressing both horror and fascination as a result of her mother's revelations.  
  
"American and Russian scientists working separately on developing nuclear capability for their countries, began secretly sharing information so that neither nation would be the sole possessor of a weapon of such destructive force. The scientists felt that although they would each be betraying their countries, they would be doing what was best for mankind. They saw themselves, not as citizens of a country, but as citizens of the world. One of those men, Yuri Alexseivich Suvin, was your grandfather, Sydney," she said softly. "The Soviet government discovered he was trading secrets and sent him to Siberia, where he was later put to death without a trial. I consider myself a citizen of the world, just like my father, and I will do anything I have to do, so that my father's sacrifice was not in vain."  
  
Irina's voice shook, and she looked pleadingly into the eyes of her daughter. "Now do you think I am a traitor? That I am in this for my own personal gain? Everything I have done has been done to keep you safe from political machinations of the world's super powers, even though you and your father, Arvin Sloane, and countless others have tried to thwart me at every turn. I loved you, and I loved your father, even though I considered his loyalty and his patriotism destructive and misguided. Do you think I wanted to hurt you? Do you think I wanted to leave you? Do you think I have not regretted the things I have done? Yes, I killed those agents you spoke of. I seduced and killed every single one, but only because I had to. Because there was no other way. That is, I seduced every agent but one, but in the end, I killed him, too," she added, almost as if to herself.  
  
Sydney froze in her seat. "Who was that agent?" she asked haltingly.  
  
Irina lifted an eyebrow and turned to her daughter in surprise. After all she had revealed, that was the last question she expected from her daughter. "His name was William Vaughn. Other than your father, he was the most upright, gentle, and honorable man I have ever known."  
  
Sydney remained silent, her emotions clashing inside her. When she had dreamed of coming face to face with her mother, two very different scenarios had come to mind. In one, her mother was cruel and irredeemably evil---someone she could justifiably hate and fight to her dying breath. In the other, her mother was abject and repentant---someone she could pity and perhaps rehabilitate. She was not prepared for the combination of the two that was before her: this strong, tragic, unrepentant, woman who recognized the evil she had done and justified it as serving a higher end.  
  
"All you've done is make a case for absolute power corrupting absolutely," Sydney said after an extended silence. "What makes your motives any different? Why should the world trust you with the Rambaldi device?"  
  
Irina's eyes glowed, as she gazed at her daughter. "That's my girl. That's the question I was hoping you'd ask. What would you say if I told you I had a dream: a dream of a world united into a single democratic society with elected officials from every culture and indigenous people, and the world's security vouchsafed by a weapon of untold power? A weapon with the ultimate failsafe: it can only be detonated if all 47 elected officials activate it simultaneously and thus would be used only if the world itself were endangered. That is the dream that both Milo Rambaldi and I share. That is the dream to which I have devoted my life."  
  
"I would say that you have betrayed and killed countless people---people you respected, some that you loved---for an utopia you'll never see realized in your life time and which may never be realized," Sydney said in a low voice.  
  
"Perhaps," Irina, replied, the light suddenly extinguished from her eyes. "But perhaps it's my destiny to try," she murmured, a strange tone in her voice.  
  
"You know about Rambaldi's prophecy, don't you?" Sydney asked suddenly. "You know what the CIA found when they exposed the blank page in Rambaldi's manuscript. They found your picture. They thought it was me, but it was you! Rambaldi didn't predict you'd save the world; he predicted you'd destroy it!"  
  
Irina gazed at her daughter. "Did it never occur to you that the CIA faked that prophecy to prevent you from taking my side and coming to work for me? If the CIA could fake Rambaldi documents expertly enough to fool SD-6, what makes you think they didn't dupe you as well? I myself cannot tell you for sure what is written there. I have not seen the complete Rambaldi manuscript. You yourself must choose whom to believe. I won't force you to make a decision now, Sydney, but you will have to make one soon. And I warn you that if you decide to remain my enemy--if you decide to continue to work against me--I will not spare your life or the lives of those close to you to realize my dream."  
  
With that, Irina turned away from her daughter and exited the room after saying a few words to the guard at the door. The door swung shut, and Sydney was alone--and desperate.  
  
Desperate for someone to contradict what she had just heard. Someone who would tell her that she was not engulfed in an endless series of lies and cover-ups. Someone who would deny the charge that working for the CIA was no better than working for SD-6. She wanted someone she trusted to tell her the truth, and she wanted that truth to be something she wanted to hear. She wanted her father, but most of all she wanted Michael Vaughn, and Michael Vaughn was dead. 


	3. Reunion Part I

Hours passed and no one came in to check on her. Since her mother's visit, Sydney had worked relentlessly on freeing herself from the handcuffs with which they had bound her, and in the process, she had rubbed her wrists almost raw.  
  
Just as she succeeded in almost getting one hand free, she heard someone open the door. It was a guard carrying a tray of food, but he got no more than a few feet into the room when someone hit him over the head with a gun. The guard slumped to the ground, his head hitting the hard concrete floor, while the tray he had been carrying flew from his hands, skidded, and finally crashed against the wall.  
  
"Dixon!" Sydney gasped. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"There's no time to explain. We'll talk later," Dixon stated, crouching down to seize a gun from the recumbent guard and grab the key for Sydney's handcuffs off his belt ring. He then came over to Sydney and released her. "I've been in radio contact with your father. He's secured the north entrance to the building, but there's no telling how long he can hold out without back up. He told me there would be another agent with you. An Agent Vaughn. Is he being held in another room?"  
  
"He was trapped behind the security doors when the Mueller device exploded and flooded the lab. I tried to save him, but I couldn't get the doors open once they sealed! Dixon, we can't leave without him."  
  
"Syd," said Dixon looking grim. "If what you say is true, he's probably dead. We can't waste time searching the building for a man who's beyond our help. We have to get out of here now!"  
  
"I don't care!" Sydney exclaimed, grabbing him by the arm. "I need to know if Vaughn got out. I need to know if he survived. Dixon, please, please, help me find him. I can't leave without him."  
  
Her grip was like steel, but her eyes pleaded with him. Dixon gazed at his partner and sighed.  
  
"Okay," he replied, conceding, against his better judgment. "We have to go through the main part of the building in order to get to the north entrance, anyway. Here, take this gun. We'll search as we go along, but if we don't find him before we reach the north entrance, we can't go back inside. You understand?"  
  
Sydney nodded. She took the gun Dixon handed to her and cocked it. "Let's go."  
  
***  
  
Vaughn heard footsteps and pressed himself against the wall, with his gun extended, waiting for the inevitable. There were clearly two guards by the sound of it, and there was only one bullet left in his gun. He barely had enough energy to stand, much less the energy required for hand-to-hand combat or an extended gun fight. What a stupid way to die. Drowning would have made more sense then dying in this hallway, knowing Sydney was in danger somewhere in this building, and he had failed to reach her.  
  
Dixon rounded the corner first and immediately trained his gun at the figure he saw there.  
  
"Dixon, it's Vaughn! Don't shoot!" Sydney cried, running forward.  
  
Vaughn spotted Dixon first, and seeing him lower his gun, he shut his eyes, and slumped against the wall. It didn't occur to him to wonder at Dixon's sudden appearance or question why he would lower his gun. Instead, relief washed over him at not having to fight yet another guard in his weakened condition. However, his lids fluttered slightly at the sound of Sydney's voice, and he glimpsed her briefly through the fringe of his eyelashes.  
  
That was all he needed. In an instant, a last surge of adrenaline coursed through his body, giving him enough energy to get up, drop the gun and take the remaining steps between them. She collided with him so forcefully, he almost fell backwards from the impact. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he crushed her fiercely to his chest, then suddenly pushed her away, just far enough to see her face.  
  
"Sydney, Oh, my God, Sydney!" His voice was hoarse from all the water he had swallowed and husky with emotion. His hands clasped her face now, searching her eyes, trying to take in the fact that she really was standing before him. He watched as disbelief, then joy, and finally a ghostly, residual sense of panic played across her face, as she relived the horror of their parting.  
  
"Vaughn! Your face! Seeing your face through that window! I thought I'd lost you. I thought you were gone. It didn't seem possible I could lose you. Not here. Not now. Not this way."  
  
She couldn't stop herself. She was sobbing now, and yet the words kept fighting their way out of her, despite her gasps for air. As one hand gripped his jacket, the other flew up to caress his cheek. She felt the stubble beneath her fingers, and looked up into Vaughn's dark green eyes. The depth of emotion she found there took her breath away.  
  
Now it was she who was drowning. Gently, Vaughn drew her back into his arms, and she buried her head in his chest, completely overcome at the idea of just how close they had come to being parted forever.  
  
There wasn't a single bone or muscle in Vaughn's body that wasn't aching or throbbing painfully. He had never felt so physically exhausted in his life or so blissfully happy. Sydney was in his arms and that was all that mattered. Vaughn closed his eyes and rested his cheek on her hair.  
  
"Shhh" he murmured, holding her close. "Ne pleure pas. Ça va aller. On est ensemble, mon amour. Je suis là. Ne pleure pas. Je t'aime," he whispered, kissing her hair, as her sobs receded. *  
  
He had slipped into French without thinking, only now realizing what he had said, but unwilling to take it back- life was too precarious, he thought, and every moment with Syd was precious. He couldn't afford to waste any more time thinking about protocol or what the CIA may deem "appropriate" interaction among agents.  
  
"Je t'aime," he repeated softly, brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek. His heart skipped a beat as Sydney raised her head and gazed up at him, her eyes suffused with wonder...  
  
Dixon had purposely adverted his eyes from Sydney and Vaughn's embrace, as he kept a look out for guards, but now he cleared his throat and approached the couple. He laid a hand on Sydney's shoulder and said, "Syd, we gotta go. I don't like how quiet this place seems. There should be more guards around. Something's not right. Let's find your father."  
  
Sydney nodded. Dixon looked at Vaughn inquiringly, but formal introductions would have to wait. Vaughn let his arms fall, and Sydney stepped out of his embrace. Just as all three turned to go, Jack and Will rounded the corner towards them.  
  
------------  
  
* The French translation is available in Ch. 4. Read on!! 


	4. Reunion Part 2

Jack had waited at the entrance, growing more and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. They should be here by now. Dixon's unexpected appearance had been a godsend, but what if all three of them were now captured? There was little Jack could do without calling in backup, and he doubted the CIA would drop everything and send an extraction team to Taipei for a group of rogue agents who had deliberately gone against protocol. In fact, Jack knew that from Devlin's point of view, they had stolen valuable intelligence data and handed it over to the other side. They'd be lucky if they weren't accused of treason when they got back. That is, if they all made it back alive.  
  
Finally fed up, Jack felt he had no choice but to go in after them. He edged his way, slowly into the building, watching for guards, as well as any sign of the missing agents. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he whirled around.  
  
"Mr. Tippin, do you realize just how close I came to putting a bullet through your head?" he seethed through clenched teeth, lowering his gun.  
  
Will blanched visibly, but took a step forward. "The sedative you gave me wore off. I saw you go inside the warehouse and thought maybe there was something I could do to help." Will, swallowed, painfully. He looked at Jack and tried to keep his gaze steady. "If there is anything--anything--I can do to help Sydney."  
  
"Go back to the van, Mr. Tippin," Jack ordered sharply, cutting him off. "You're of no use to me or to Sydney in your present condition. You'll only endanger yourself further."  
  
The truth was Will was in almost as much danger in the van as he was inside the building with him. Will didn't move, and Jack sighed. He reached inside his jacket and handed the battered and bruised reporter a gun. "Take this, but stay behind me."  
  
They continued edging their way around corridors. Will followed Jack's lead, but stayed at least three steps behind him. Jack peered around the next corner and then swore under his breath. Will's sweaty fingers gripped the gun Jack had given him more tightly, but he was confused by the barely perceptible relaxation in the older man's stance. When Jack did not advance, Will's curiosity got the better of him, and he almost stumbled over him in his effort to get a glimpse of whatever Jack had seen.  
  
"Who the hell is that?" Will whispered, stunned.  
  
Just around the corner stood Sydney cradled in the arms of a stranger. Will watched as the man kissed the top of her head and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His heart constricted as he saw her lift her head and look up at the man with eyes full of wonder and something else--love?  
  
Jack didn't give him time to analyze the significance of her gaze, though, and roughly hauled him back around the corner before Dixon could turn in their direction.  
  
However Jack, too, had gazed at Sydney and Vaughn meditatively for a moment, unaccountably loath to interrupt their embrace. Of all the times and places, he thought exasperatedly, but he had to acknowledge that a small part of him was glad to see them together, despite the fact that they were ensconced in each other's arms--protocol be damned.  
  
He attempted to trace the source of this inner weakness, but then noticed Will was still staring at him, expecting an answer.  
  
"That man is Sydney's handler--" Jack began, wondering just how much of Sydney's covert activities he wanted to reveal to Tippin.  
  
"I can see that!" Will interrupted, conscious of the irritation and jealousy in his own voice, but unable to mask it. "Who the hell is he?"  
  
Jack glared at Will, his lips compressed and his eyes steely. As much as he didn't care for Sydney and Vaughn's timing or choice of location, he liked Tippin's tone of voice and his reaction to the situation even less.  
  
"Agent Michael Vaughn is Sydney's contact at the CIA and like you, her friend," he stated coldly.  
  
Will slowly shook his head at Jack's words.  
  
That's where you're wrong, buddy, he thought, the truth slowly taking on certainty in his mind. Sydney and I are friends, but she's in love with him. Him. Michael Vaughn. That should be as frickin' obvious to you as it is to me.  
  
Catching Jack's eye again, he was startled by the man's glare and was afraid he had spoken his thoughts aloud.  
  
"Listen, Mr. Tippin," Jack said curtly, clearly out of patience. "There was much Sydney couldn't--in fact, was forbidden--to share with you and Francie about her work. Agent Vaughn has been there for her, when neither you, nor I, nor Francie could be. He has risked both his career and his life on this mission, and he came simply because he knew you were a close friend of Sydney's and that your life was in danger. Michael Vaughn has earned Sydney's gratitude and my respect for that. I believe he deserves yours, as well."  
  
Will swallowed and then nodded his head, utterly abashed and no longer able to meet Jack Bristow's gaze.  
  
Jack gazed at the battered and bruised man in the bloodied sweatshirt beside him--a boy, really--and felt something like remorse. It was clear to him that Tippin had feelings for his daughter that she did not entirely requite. No doubt his dogged pursuit of Daniel Hecht's killers was designed to win her love--the love Tippin had just now watched her bestow on Vaughn.  
  
For an instant Jack wished he could take back his words and spare this boy additional pain. But only for an instant. There were bigger issues at stake at the present moment than matters of the heart, and it seemed he needed to remind both Sydney and Vaughn of that, as well.  
  
"Let's go," Jack said, stepping around the corner. Will followed, but with more hesitation.  
  
"Will!" Sydney cried as soon as she saw him. Leaving Vaughn's side, she ran to him and hugged him. "Are you all right? Oh, my God, Will! What did they do to you?" she gasped, taking in all at once the rusty spots of dried blood on his sweatshirt and the livid bruises on his face. She fingered his swollen jaw, and Will winced.  
  
"It's about time someone over here did an expose on unsafe dental practices. Heck, I'll write the article myself. They don't even have to use my byline. Who licenses these quacks, anyway? Godzilla?"  
  
Will grimaced manfully, trying to wave away Sydney's attention. He was suddenly conscious that he struck a less than heroic figure amid the more seasoned agents--of which he included Vaughn, who was now approaching him.  
  
Now that he could see him up close, Will saw that Vaughn looked haggard. Clearly, this man had gone through high water and a good bit of hell in order to be standing here beside Sydney. They eyed each other for a moment, and unexpectedly, Will held out his hand to him.  
  
"Jack told me everything you've done. What you risked to be here. Thanks. I just want to say--thanks," he ended, rather lamely, trying not to think about Sydney or the embrace he had seen moments ago and focus solely on the fact that this man had helped save his life.  
  
Slightly taken aback, Vaughn nodded and grasped Will's hand in return.  
  
Up until now the mere mention of Will's name had been enough to send him into a jealous snit. He remembered Sydney coming to the warehouse the night she took Will to the dinner party at Sloane's. She had looked absolutely fabulous in that black tank dress. He couldn't help but notice how it hugged every curve of her body, despite the fact that Jack had been standing right there watching him.  
  
Even though he knew it would have broken every rule in the book, he had wanted to accompany Sydney to that party. But he played the "Company" man, gave her the counter mission, and watched wistfully as she turned to go-- except that a "Company" man would never have told her she looked pretty.  
  
Pretty! What a unbelievably absurd understatement!  
  
For the rest of night he had tortured himself with images of Sydney and Will together: Will helping her with her coat, pulling the chair out for her, sitting next to her at the table, his knee almost touching hers. It drove him absolutely crazy. The truth was that he was more jealous of Will than he had been of Noah Hicks. Noah had come and gone, but Will was a constant part of Sydney's everyday life--the part of her life Vaughn was forbidden to share.  
  
For that reason and more, he had expected to hate Will on sight. However, he was surprised to find that wasn't the case. He liked the reporter's self- deprecating humor and had a grudging respect for his scruffy courage. He even felt a degree of camaraderie with him. After all, hadn't they both broken the rules and risked everything in order to help Sydney? But now as he looked at the man he once considered a rival for Sydney's affections, it occurred to him that Will might be as envious of the role he played in Sydney's life as he was of the role Will himself played.  
  
Jack glared at Will and Vaughn with equal impatience, but Sydney glanced back and forth between the two men, a smile creeping over her face. However, any further exchange was cut off by an alarm, which suddenly began keening like an air raid siren.  
  
Dixon and Jack exchanged glances, sharing a sudden realization that explained why there were no guards on this side of the building: the warehouse was being evacuated, probably through a secret passageway or hidden exit. "The Man" was using the guards who would normally be stationed around the building to remove whatever could be salvaged. The siren was the last warning before they blew up what was left of the lab, so that there would be nothing the CIA could use to further their own knowledge of Rambaldi or his strange inventions.  
  
"Go!" Jack shouted, not bothering to explain to the others. "Get out of here. Now!"  
  
Sydney whipped around and grabbed Vaughn's hand. There was no way she would leave him behind again. They started to run, with Sydney pulling Vaughn along. Will followed, then Dixon, while Jack brought up the rear. They reached the north entrance, just as the warehouse blew.  
  
The blast threw all of them several feet. Vaughn and Sydney stumbled and rolled to the ground, while both Jack and Dixon dove to cover Will. Debris flew everywhere, as flames burst from the warehouse, traveling several stories into the air. Sydney crouched down until the worst was over, and then turned around, feeling the heat of the blaze on her cheek. The red and gold inferno mesmerized her, until Jack finally grabbed her and pushed her toward the van.  
  
Where was her mother now, and what would be her next move? 


	5. Taking Stock

Once the plane Jack had commandeered took off, they began to take stock and attend to their wounds. Fatigue was apparent on all their faces, but, Will, having received another powerful sedative, was the only one who slept. Although his face still looked swollen and garish, the painkillers had made him comfortable, at least for the short term.  
  
Dixon and Jack were remarkably unscathed except for a few minor burns, as was Sydney--barring the puffy, bruised area of her cheek, where a guard had blindsided her with the butt of his gun and the abrasions around her wrists. Vaughn, however, had cracked three ribs which needed bandaging. Fortunately, the plane had often been used on medical runs and had an extremely well stocked first aid kit.  
  
Sydney blushed as she self-consciously helped Vaughn remove the tight black t-shirt he had worn to the club. Although she hadn't wanted to draw attention to her perusal of his chest, she wasn't able to suppress her gasp of dismay at seeing the purple, green, and yellow streaks that mottled the area around his ribs.  
  
Vaughn simply gritted his teeth and silently lifted his arms so that she could wind the bandage around him. Sydney could tell from the way he averted his eyes, though, that he was embarrassed. This was clearly not the physical intimacy either of them had had in mind earlier.  
  
She tried to be as gentle as possible, but despite her attempts, he grunted several times in pain.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she muttered, distractedly, working as fast and as efficiently as she could. "When did this happen? When we were thrown to the ground by the blast? "  
  
Vaughn inhaled sharply, then shook his head. "I think I felt a couple crack when the wave threw me against the door. " He gave her a lop-sided grin. "But, then again, it could have been the guard that was trying to kick the hell out of me before I grabbed his gun. Although, I don't think that last sprint before the warehouse blew helped any. Remind me to renew my membership at the gym and brush up on my combat training when I get home."  
  
Sydney knew he was making light of his injuries for her sake, but it clearly hurt him to breathe. She could hear the raspiness in his lungs and wondered just how much water he had inhaled after the Mueller device exploded. Cracked ribs might not be the worst of his woes.  
  
She gave him a rueful smile as she lowered the t-shirt over his head and smoothed the fabric down around him, careful not to press on the bandages. "I doubt you'll be doing any sparring any time soon. This will take at least five or six weeks to heal--that is if you don't catch pneumonia."  
  
"Great!" he replied, the sarcasm evident in his voice. Then he noticed Sydney hadn't removed her hands from his hips after smoothing out the last fold of the t-shirt.  
  
They stood only inches apart.  
  
It would be so easy to kiss her, Vaughn thought. All he had to do was lean in and he would finally feel her lips pressed against his. How long had he waited for precisely this opportunity? His brow furrowed as he gazed at her.  
  
He had told her he loved her, and he was all but certain now that she cared for him, but that didn't change the circumstances they found themselves in. The fact that he was finding more and more creative justifications for breaking the rules didn't make it any safer for them to do so. Could he really afford to put her life in any more jeopardy than it already was?  
  
The tension between them was palpable. She seemed to be waiting for his move, either unwilling or unable to break the spell that transfixed them on her own.  
  
"Syd--" he said, his voice low and rough with emotion, seeing the sorrow in her eyes at his hesitation.  
  
"Vaughn, don't. Don't say it," she pleaded, putting her fingers to his lips.  
  
She knew the risks. Would one kiss really make such a difference? She tried to deny it, but in her heart, she knew it would change everything. There could never be just one kiss, because one kiss would be followed by another and another and another. But, he had told her he loved her back in the warehouse in Taipei. Could anything ever be the same again?  
  
"Shh, don't cry," he had whispered in French. "Everything's okay. We're together now. I'm right here. Don't cry. I love you."  
  
At first she couldn't believe her ears. Had she heard him correctly? Did he even realize what he'd said? But then he had repeated it with a new sense of resolve in his voice.  
  
"I love you."  
  
At that moment, she had felt everything inside her melt and begin to glow. Dixon had interrupted them before she could reply, but she hoped Vaughn had read her answer in her eyes.  
  
Tears pricked at her eyelids now as she held her fingers to his lips. She looked at him and saw the same anguish she felt reflected in his eyes.  
  
"When?" she asked, brokenly, unable to meet his gaze any longer.  
  
"I don't know," he answered, kissing her fingers, before he lowered them from his lips. "Someday soon--I hope." 


	6. Explanations

Sydney helped Vaughn to the back of the plane, where Dixon and Jack were already crouched over, deep in conversation. Although certain that Will was still asleep, they spoke softly even though very little could be heard over the drone of the engines. There was much that needed to be discussed, which Will could not be privy to--at least not yet.  
  
"Dixon, this is Agent Michael Vaughn, my handler at the CIA. Vaughn, this is Marcus Dixon."  
  
Sydney glanced back and forth between the two men and blushed, suddenly recalling that Dixon had witnessed her emotional reunion with Vaughn. He had no doubt surmised that her relationship with Vaughn extended far beyond the normal agent-handler protocol. She hoped he wouldn't say anything in front of her father--unaware that Jack and Will had witnessed the embrace themselves.  
  
Dixon's smile, which had appeared on his face as she and Vaughn approached, widened further. "I believe Agent Vaughn and I already met in an alley in Denpasar. I still have the goose-egg-sized lump on my head to prove it," he said massaging the back of his head, laughing.  
  
Vaughn looked sheepish. "Sorry about that. It wasn't really a fair fight. I was lucky I came up to you from behind. You seem to be in great shape, even after Aconcagua."  
  
Dixon smile faded momentarily at the mention of Aconcagua, but then resurfaced. "Of course," he said, as a new piece in the puzzle shifted into place. "You must have put together the CIA team that extracted us. If Syd hadn't contacted you, I probably wouldn't have made it. I have both you and Syd to thank for that. "  
  
"Dixon, how did you find out I was a double agent for the CIA? And who told you about our mission to Taipei?" Sydney asked.  
  
"After I left you at the pier, I drove to SD-6 and sat in my car for over an hour, trying to work up the nerve to go in there and denounce you to security section, but I couldn't. I just couldn't," he said, glancing up at Sydney, troubled.  
  
"I didn't know what to think. All the evidence pointed to the fact that you were betraying SD-6--and for all I knew, the country, but your protestations were so--so vehement--I went over all the excuses and rationalizations I had made for you again in my mind. There was only one that seemed to make any sense. I reasoned that if the CIA had any suspicions about SD-6 or any of its activities, they might recruit an agent inside the agency to investigate," Dixon said, glancing around the circle, "so I went to the L.A. field office instead and demanded to see someone in charge of covert ops. I told them that I suspected you were a double agent working against SD-6, and unless they confirmed that her activities were sanctioned by the CIA, I would turn you in to security section at SD-6."  
  
Dixon's words were met with stunned silence. Sydney opened her mouth and then closed it once more. Without knowing that SD-6 was not a covert branch of the CIA, Dixon had come remarkably close to guessing the truth. It was at that point that Sydney and Vaughn exchanged glances.  
  
"Whom did you speak with at the CIA?" he asked, the question coming out more sharply than he intended.  
  
Dixon chuckled. "Well, there seemed to be some confusion at the office about that. I was told the agent assigned as Sydney's handler had been suspended recently and taken off her case," Dixon said, turning to Vaughn with one eyebrow raised.  
  
When Vaughn nodded in confirmation, Sydney turned to him in surprise and dismay. "Vaughn--what happened? Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"I was going to tell you after we got back from Taipei. I didn't want to concern you. You had enough on your mind worrying about Will," Vaughn said, shooting Sydney a guilty look, but then returning his focus to Dixon. "So, then what?"  
  
"Then, I was told I should speak to an Agent Haladki, but he did not respond to being paged," Dixon replied, looking inquiringly around the group.  
  
Vaughn and Sydney both turned to Jack. "Haladki was the source you referred to earlier. Wasn't he?" Sydney asked.  
  
Jack assented. "His knowledge of the circumference gave him away as the mole. I extracted the information I needed from him for this mission and then eliminated him," he stated in a perfectly controlled voice.  
  
"Haladki's body was found later at the warehouse, along with the tape you made of his confession," Dixon stated. "Devlin wasn't precisely thrilled with your methods of extracting information. Let's just say you didn't exactly follow CIA protocol. However, taping Haladki's confession was a smart move, Jack. Not only did it exonerate you and provide the CIA with evidence of Haladki's activities, it gave me the information I eventually needed to follow you to Taipei."  
  
It took a minute for Sydney and Vaughn to absorb this information.  
  
"So, who told you about Sydney and the mission to Taipei ? Devlin?" Vaughn said, resuming his questioning of Dixon.  
  
Dixon shook his head. "They finally let me talk with an Agent Weiss who revealed that Sydney had been spying on SD-6 covertly for the past nine months at the CIA's behest. He told me he couldn't tell me any more without risking Sydney's cover and placing me and my family in jeopardy, but later he relented."  
  
"What precisely did Agent Weiss tell you?" Vaughn asked, his voice urgent. " I have reason to believe he may have been feeding information to Haladki for months and may be just as dangerous."  
  
"Weiss was helping Haladki?" Sydney asked incredulously.  
  
Dixon glanced at Sydney and then back at Vaughn. "Agent Weiss was aware that circumstances made it appear that he was the mole. He wanted you to know that in an effort to locate the source of the security breaches, the CIA did a sweep of all the offices and found bugs in both your office and Agent Weiss's. Agent Weiss believed that as a result of the bugs, Sydney's cover was compromised, as was all the intelligence you both had collected over the last several months. He told me he was all but certain that you had gone to help Jack and Sydney rescue Will, and he was very worried that you were all walking into a very dangerous and elaborate trap."  
  
Sydney watched as a mixture of doubt, shame, and then a surge of anger flashed across Vaughn's face.  
  
He had considered Weiss a traitor, had been certain of it, even though Eric was his best friend. Of course, it was reassuring to discover Weiss had not fed information to Haladki knowingly, but Vaughn still felt betrayed. It was Eric's actions, after all, that had caused Devlin to remove him as Sydney's handler. It was then that his thoughts turned to Dixon. He didn't know what he would have done in Eric's place if Dixon had walked into his office, but he sure as hell wouldn't have sent him to Taipei. What was Eric thinking?  
  
He slammed his palm down on an upended crate. "So Eric told you not only about Sydney's status as a double agent, he sent you to Taipei to extract us? Doesn't he know he's endangering your life, as well as risking any chance we have of keeping Sydney's cover intact?"  
  
A sudden coughing fit forced him to suspend his diatribe. Sydney went to offer him her support, but he shook his head, indicating he didn't need it.  
  
Dixon waited for Vaughn's coughing to subside. When he resumed his story, his voice and expression remained dignified, but a thin undercurrent of anger hovered just below the surface. "Agent Weiss had every reason to believe that Sydney's cover was blown whether I went to Taipei or not, and he felt responsible for putting you and Sydney in danger. However, he didn't ask me to go--I volunteered. I told him that I had spent 21 years believing that I was serving my country by working for SD-6 and the last 7 of those I spent as Sydney's partner. After I discovered the truth about SD- 6, do you really think Agent Weiss could have stopped me from going to help Sydney? You of all people should understand that. Isn't that precisely what you did yourself, even though they suspended you?"  
  
Vaughn rubbed his forehead and ran a hand through his spiky, disheveled hair. "Of course," he said, sighing. "You're right. I'm sorry."  
  
It was Dixon who had found Sydney and helped her escape. For all he knew, if Dixon hadn't been there, none of them may have gotten out alive. What was wrong with him? The icy cabin felt stuffy to him, and he swayed on his feet, feeling a bit light-headed.  
  
Dixon's gaze left Vaughn and moved to Sydney. Tears glistened in his eyes and his voice shook. "Syd, it was bad enough to think you were the traitor. Now I learn that it was I who was unwittingly betraying my country. I don't know what upsets me more. That SD-6 lied to me for so many years, or that you knew for the last year and didn't tell me."  
  
Sydney covered her mouth with her hand, as tears silently slid down her cheeks. She had dreaded this moment. There were no words to express her regret, but still she tried.  
  
"Dixon, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I wanted to tell you! There wasn't a day that went by when I didn't agonize over not telling you," she whispered. "Dixon, forgive me! I wanted to tell you so badly!"  
  
"Sydney's not to blame," Vaughn said sternly. "I am. I ordered her to keep the truth from you. In the beginning, I felt it was necessary because the CIA had no way of telling which agents knew of SD-6's true agenda and which had been duped into believing they were working for the CIA. After you sent the request for support when McKenas Cole stormed SD-6, I knew you believed you were working for a covert branch of the CIA. However, I convinced Sydney that by telling you, she would be endangering you and your family. I'm sorry. I thought it was for the best-for you and for Sydney. Perhaps I was wrong," he concluded, a note of bitterness in his voice.  
  
Vaughn knew by now that there were no simple answers in this line of business. Everyday he made decisions on which the lives of countless other agents depended. It was like a game of chess. The configuration of the entire board could change as the result of one move--except the casualties weren't mere chess pieces. Lives of men and women--agents like his father with families and loved ones--were sacrificed simply to get the next vital piece of information the government needed to stay one step ahead of covert enemies like SD-6. The trouble was there was no endgame in sight. The game could go on forever and the casual victims and collateral damage on both sides would just continue to mount.  
  
Dixon shook his head back and forth slowly, following his own train of thought.  
  
"All those missions for SD-6! Syd, at any point I could have done something that might have exposed you and endangered your entire operation. Oh, God, Badenweiler." Dixon's voice faded, as realization suddenly dawned. "The second detonator. Syd, the way you reacted. you said it was because of Danny, but that wasn't it, was it? There must have been a team in there. My God, Sydney, how many men did I kill?" he said, his voice hoarse, a look of horror contorting his face.  
  
"No, no, not you," Sydney said fiercely, crouching down towards Dixon and grasping his hands. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't know."  
  
"I take full responsibilities for the deaths at Badenweiler," Vaughn interjected softly, but firmly. "All of us wish those deaths could have been prevented and the lives of those men spared, but as I told Sydney, everyone on that team knew the risks of performing specials ops. They died serving their country."  
  
Vaughn didn't add the words "like my father." At that instant the memory of standing by his father's coffin as an eight-year-old boy merged in his mind with the memory of comforting a boy, much like he himself had been, at the funeral of the agents who had died at Badenweiler. It made his head swim, and he reached out to an upturned crate. To Vaughn's surprise, Jack reached up to steady him, a look of concern in his eyes. He was even more astonished when the usually taciturn man broke his silence to defend him.  
  
"Dixon, your ignorance was the best way to guarantee Sydney's cover and her safety," Jack said shortly. "We simply couldn't afford to bring in a third double agent prior to this, and as Sydney's handler, Agent Vaughn acted in the best interests both of the CIA and the agent in his charge. Those deaths were the result of actions taken by SD-6. No one should take the blame except Arvin Sloane," Jack affirmed. "However, now that you and Will both know the truth, and 'The Man' has compromised Sydney's cover, something else must be worked out. But first, we need to find out exactly how much 'The Man' knows and how he intends to use it. What did the three of you discover at the warehouse?"  
  
Sydney glanced at Vaughn. His eyes had taken on a glazed, feverish look, and all the color had drained from his face. "We can talk about this later. Vaughn, I think you should rest."  
  
Vaughn shook his head stubbornly. "I'm alright. Let me tell you what I know. It isn't much."  
  
With his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, he had left the small window, from which Sydney caught her last glimpse of him and found a small pocket of air near the ceiling of the sealed corridor. When he dived back down to check on Sydney, he saw her being dragged away by guards.  
  
By this time, the wave which had slammed him into the door had begun to recede. It reminded him of the wave machine he had once spotted in Devlin's office. If you tipped one side, the wave washed against the opposite end, ricocheted, and flowed back to the end at which it had started, repeating this process, until it dissipated and equilibrium was reached.  
  
He followed the wave to its source, taking advantage of the increasingly larger air pockets he found a long the way. Once he reached the lab, the water had leveled out, and he was able to find a foothold and climb up to the rickety catwalk that still hung down from the ceiling of the laboratory. He resolved to stay hidden there until he had recovered enough energy to move. Soon guards were swarming over what was left of the lab, but none of them even glanced at the catwalk.  
  
When he felt it was safe, he moved out of his hiding place, only to be ambushed by a guard who got in several kicks before Vaughn could trip him up and take his gun. Slightly more confident now that he was armed, Vaughn began searching the premises for Sydney, but it was slow going. His progress was hampered both by his injuries and his need to remain undetected. In the end, Dixon and Sydney had found him.  
  
It wasn't a long story, but Vaughn was clearly fatigued by the telling of it. Sydney noticed that as he talked, he braced his ribs with one arm and increasingly stopped to catch his breath before going on.  
  
"The guards seemed to be searching the lab for something in particular," he said, when suddenly he was seized with a coughing fit and couldn't go on for several minutes.  
  
Finally recovered, he pulled something out of his pocket. "After the guards left, I decided to look around myself and found this, wedged into the side of a crate." He held out a small prism, shaped like a pyramid, no bigger than a gaming die. He rolled the pyramid in the palm of his hand, and variegated rays of light shot from its surface even in the dark cabin. A glyph was etched into the surface of each side of the prism, one of which Sydney recognized: the Rambaldi eye.  
  
"Marshall would have a field day with this. It must be a part of the Mueller device," she breathed.  
  
"A very important part, if the guards' concern is any indication," Jack stated. "Excellent work, Agent Vaughn. Now I suggest you take Sydney's advice and rest."  
  
Jack's voice was kind, and Vaughn looked into the older man's eyes. Something had shifted in their relationship. Antagonism and antipathy had changed to respect. The two men gazed at each other, and Vaughn finally assented. 


	7. Disintegration

Sydney checked on Will, saw to it that Vaughn was settled as comfortably as possible near the front of the plane, and returned to where Dixon and her father sat.  
  
"Dixon told me he found you handcuffed, but unhurt in the warehouse with only a single guard at the door. Given enough time, you could have freed yourself," Jack said. "What happened after the guards dragged you away?"  
  
"I woke up in a room, and Khasinau came in. He tried to feed me soup. He was gentle and somewhat sad," Sydney mused. "He's not the man you think he is."  
  
Dixon and Jack exchanged incredulous glances.  
  
"Are you sure he didn't drug you?" Dixon asked skeptically. "What was the point of luring you to Taipei, if he wasn't going to interrogate you? That sounds nothing like the profile we have of 'The Man.' Just look at what Sark did to Will, presumably on orders from 'The Man' himself."  
  
Sydney shuddered. It made her sick to think of what Will had suffered. "But that's what I am trying to tell you. Khasinau isn't 'The Man.'"  
  
"Then who is?" Jack burst out impatiently.  
  
Sydney looked at her father uncertainly. " 'The Man' isn't a man at all," she said, and her voice quivered. " 'The Man' is a woman."  
  
Jack looked at his daughter's anguished eyes, and his own eyes grew wide.  
  
"Laura," he breathed.  
  
Sydney nodded, swallowing back her tears.  
  
Now it was Jack's turn to shake his head in disbelief. Slowly, his features hardened, taking on a stony mask of suppressed anger. "Did she hurt you in any way?"  
  
Sydney looked at her father helplessly. "Just seeing her hurt me. I don't know what I expected. One moment she seemed exactly like the woman I remembered, tender, loving; the next she turned into this impossibly cold, cruel stranger. Seeing that hurt worse than if she had shot me."  
  
Tears slipped down her face, and before she could wipe them away, Jack grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look straight into his eyes. "What did she say to you?" he asked her agitatedly. "What did she tell you?"  
  
Jack did not interrupt once, as Sydney recounted her entire conversation with her mother. He hung on every word she said, his face taking on a more and more haunted look with each revelation.  
  
Dixon tactfully withdrew, leaving Sydney alone with her father. Jack, however, had retreated into himself. Only his rapid breathing belied his almost eerie, outward calm. All she had wanted after her mother's visit was to be comforted by someone who loved her. Someone strong enough to reassure her that everything she worked for hadn't been a lie. Subsequent events-- her reunion with Vaughn, the escape from the warehouse, and her concern for Will and Dixon--had made it impossible for her to dwell on her conversation with her mother. She could only guess what her father was thinking now.  
  
"Dad?" Sydney said tentatively. "Dad?" she said more loudly, when he continued to stare past her.  
  
Jack's eyes slowly came back to focus on his daughter, and bit by bit his stony façade cracked. Loud, choked sobs came from deep within this seemingly stoic man, and Sydney threw her arms around his neck. Jack clung to her, and Sydney felt the sobs shudder through him.  
  
"I'm sorry," he muttered brokenly. "I was a fool. Such a fool. I regret everything about my relationship with that woman--everything except you. If she had hurt you, God help me--"  
  
After a time--neither father nor daughter could say how long--Jack wiped his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, and turned away from his daughter. Without another word, he moved to the back of the plane. Sydney gazed after him, looking at the father she was getting to know so much later in life than she would have liked. She didn't know what sort of confrontations with Irina the future held, she only knew she and her father would face them together. 


	8. Ramifications

Those who could sleep rested for the remainder of the trip, but Sydney remained awake, with Vaughn's feverish head cradled in her lap. She had tried to make him as comfortable as possible amid the boxes, but even in his sleep he winced whenever the plane hit the slightest turbulence.  
  
Due to the altitude at which the plane was flying, it was extremely chilly in the cabin. Sydney rearranged the blanket around him and watched, helplessly, as his temperature soared and his breathing grew more and more tortured. In no time his body was wracked by chills, and he shuddered, even as sweat beaded on his forehead. Intermittently, his eyelids would flutter, and he would mutter something she was unable to understand.  
  
She wiped the sweat from Vaughn's brow and prayed, as his delirium deepened. She listened, as he argued with Eric, justified his actions to Devlin, confronted his father's ghost, tried to warn her of the guards approaching from behind, and whispered endearments to her in both French and English. He was reliving the events of the last few days in his dreams, and Sydney was abashed by all that he revealed, knowing he was not in control of what he said. She felt as if she was seeing directly into his soul, and it humbled her and filled her with a fierce protectiveness. She tried to sooth him and encouraged him to sleep, but the torrent of words would subside only to pick up again a short time later. He fell asleep only when they were within an hour of L.A.  
  
It was at this point that Jack made his way over to his daughter. "How is he?" he queried, the concern evident in his eyes, even though his voice remained cool and detached. It was the first time they had spoken since she had told him about her mother.  
  
"He's delirious and his lungs are congested. It's already hard for him to breathe because of his cracked ribs. We need to get him to a hospital as soon as we get to L.A."  
  
"I've radioed ahead and arranged for Agent Weiss to meet us at the airport. He'll take care of Agent Vaughn and make sure that he gets the medical attention he needs."  
  
"What about Will?"  
  
"I gave him another sedative and a heavy painkiller. He should be fine until we get to L.A. We'll have to take him to another safe house for the time being. The CIA can arrange for an oral surgeon to examine him there. Tippin's going to have to decide soon whether he wants to go into the witness protection program or become an operative. There's no indication that SD-6 is aware that you are a double agent. I'm convinced Irina is holding that information in reserve, to see if you will cooperate with her in the future. For the time being, I believe it's safe for you to go back to your apartment, but I will be checking in with you frequently."  
  
Sydney nodded. She thought that would be the extent of their conversation, but her father cleared his throat. There was still something he wanted to say.  
  
"Vaughn and Tippin are good men, Sydney. Both of them. It's obvious they care about you very much. You should be proud--very proud--of the way they handled themselves in Taipei. Try not to worry." He put his hand on her shoulder , briefly, and then turned to go.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Yes?" He turned back looking vaguely apprehensive that she would expect something else-some further proof of his emotional weakness.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Jack gazed at his daughter in silence, and slowly nodded his head.  
  
***  
  
Both Sydney and Jack had to support Vaughn as they deplaned. Weiss got out of the car parked on the tarmac and jogged the remaining distance to the plane to meet them.  
  
"Mikey, let me tell you something confidentially. You look like crap," Weiss said as he swung Vaughn's arm around his shoulder shifted more of Vaughn's weight onto himself. "I haven't seen you this messed up since Driscol wiped the ice with your ass back in the semifinals. Remember that game?" Weiss kept his tone jovial, but his eyes were heavy with concern.  
  
Vaughn was too far gone to react to his friend's teasing. Sydney followed Weiss to the car and helped him get Vaughn into the backseat. He was barely conscious, and his breath came in shallow, wheezing, rasps.  
  
"What the hell happened to you guys in Taipei?" Weiss growled, once he shut the door. This was precisely what he had tried to warn Mike about after Denpasar. He'd give Syd one of the famous lectures on appropriate agent- handler protocol he gave Vaughn, if he didn't think she'd kick his ass.  
  
Sydney knew Weiss was angry at her for having endangered Vaughn's life. Maybe if she weren't so exhausted, she would have taken umbrage, but too much had happened in the last 48 hours. And, frankly, there was nothing he could reproach her with that she hadn't already chastised herself for during the long flight back to L.A.  
  
"It's a long story," she said, sighing. "Vaughn cracked a few ribs. He has a fever and became delirious on the trip back. I think he inhaled a good deal of water back in Tapei. He needs a doctor. Please take--take good care of him."  
  
Her voice faltered. She bit her lip and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold back the tears. She had cried in front of everyone else. She wouldn't cry in front of Eric Weiss.  
  
Weiss glanced at her and knit his eyebrows. "Syd, hey, listen, don't worry," he said, soothingly, shedding his tough-guy act. "He's gonna be fine. Trust me. I wasn't kidding when I said I'd seen him messed up worse than this. Hockey's not a pretty sport, and Mike's no wuss."  
  
Sydney sniffed, and wiped away the tears that stubbornly trickled down her cheeks, despite her best efforts at controlling them. She smiled briefly through her tears, which was precisely what Weiss had been hoping for.  
  
"Really, go home," he continued. "Get some rest. I'll take care of everything and call you on a secure line to update you on his status. Mike wouldn't want you to worry about him."  
  
"I love him," she said suddenly, staring intently at the asphalt.  
  
She spoke so quietly Weiss barely heard her. He gazed at her over the roof of the car, speechless, all his worst fears confirmed. She lifted her head, and it nearly broke his heart just to look at her.  
  
"Jeez, Syd, it doesn't surprise me," he sighed. "You gotta know at this point that he loves you, too. But, there's a reason why the CIA discourages this kind of thing," he continued on, his voice taking on new urgency. "Forget the fact that he's your handler, and it's clouding his judgment. You should just see the way he gets every time you go off on a mission. It scares the shit out of him that you might not come back. Now that he's taken it into his head to start accompanying you on jaunts like this one, it could get you both killed--that is if SD-6 doesn't spot you canoodling somewhere and kill you first."  
  
He realized too late that he was shouting at her. He stopped abruptly, and threw up his hands. "Syd, I'm sorry. You don't need a lecture from me, especially right now. It's just, Mike's my best friend. I don't want to see him hurt any more than you do."  
  
"It's okay," Sydney said, wiping away her tears. "You should-you should get him to the hospital, though," she told him, the strength and determination returning to her voice. "I heard everything you just said, and you're right, but we'll--we'll deal with it later, after Vaughn's recovered."  
  
Weiss nodded, for the first time seeing a little bit of Jack Bristow coming out in her. "I'll tell you what. Mike's gonna be laid up for a couple of weeks at least. Write a message on a paper bag anytime and leave it at one of the drop off-points. I'll make sure he gets it. Just don't make it mushy or someone in recon will see it and have a field day."  
  
"Thanks, Eric," she said. "For everything."  
  
"Don't mention it. Now, seriously, go home and get some sleep." 


	9. Coming Home

Sydney gingerly opened the door of her apartment, hoping against hope that Francie wouldn't be home.  
  
It was just her luck. Francie was sitting with a mug of coffee at the kitchen counter, doing the crossword in the Sunday edition of the L.A. Times.  
  
"Syd!" Francie cried, as soon as she saw her. She threw down her ball point pen and ran to give her a hug. "How was Puerto Vallarta?"  
  
Sydney hugged her roommate. Puerto Vallarta? "It was great--really great!" she enthused, hoping Francie didn't detect how clueless she was. Who told Francie she had gone to Puerto Vallarta?  
  
"I was so happy for you when I found out!" Francie said leading her over to the couch. "I told your Dad when he called that it was about time the bank did something to acknowledge all those extra hours you put in!"  
  
Then Francie took a good look at her roommate. "Hey, you sure don't look like someone who just got back from all-expense-paid weekend in Puerto Vallarta. What happened?"  
  
Sydney sighed. "Well, actually, the weather was awful. And it really wasn't much fun without you and Will."  
  
"Didn't anyone else go with you? That's kind of lame. It sure was sudden, the way they whisked you off like that, but I wouldn't have been able to go because of all the preparations for opening the restaurant, and I don't know where Will's gone off to, but you could have at least invited someone from work. What about the guy who gave you that picture frame at Christmas?"  
  
"Francie!"  
  
"I'm just saying, why go to Puerto Vallarta alone when there's a cute guy at the office who was sweet enough to get you a Christmas present!"  
  
Sydney sighed. She wished with all her heart that she had been in Puerto Vallarta with Vaughn, instead of in Taipei extracting Will and confronting her mother. The image of them together, sunning themselves on the beach, contrasted jarringly with her memory of keeping watch through the night to see if a feverish and delirious Vaughn would survive the plane trip back to L.A.  
  
"Actually, I thought about it, but he's been out sick the last week or so. Pneumonia, I think," she replied, rather distantly.  
  
Francie frowned. "That reminds me." She looked apprehensively at Sydney and took her hand. "I have some--some bad news for you. I don't know how to tell you this, but Emily Sloane died over the weekend. I'm sorry, Syd. I really am."  
  
Sydney was stunned. Emily had appeared so strong when she had last seen her. Sloane had even said that the cancer was in complete remission. Surely it wasn't because of the security breach. My God, had someone at SD-6 terminated Emily, knowing full well she was Sloane's wife? Or was Sloane himself so merciless, so without pity that he could take the life of the woman who had loved him for thirty-six years?  
  
"Oh, Syd, I know it's a shock!" Francie exclaimed in dismay. "I shouldn't have told you right when you got in the door. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"  
  
"No, I'm all right," Sydney said, giving her friend a small smile. It was the same brave, everything's-all-right-even-if-it's-not-smile that her roommate had come to know well. "But, if you don't mind, I think I'll just go to my room and rest for awhile."  
  
Francie nodded, and Sydney went to her room and shut the door. Her head was pounding, and she felt as if someone had stuck cotton underneath her eyelids. She was so unbelievably exhausted. She hadn't slept for 48 hours-- or was it more? She'd lost track having crossed the international dateline twice.  
  
She awoke to the sound of the phone. It had grown dark, and when she rolled over to check the digital clock at her bedside she discovered was 9:30 in the evening. She had been so tired, she didn't even remember falling into bed.  
  
"Yes?" she said, picking up the receiver, her heart pounding. The last time her bedroom phone rang it had been Sark detailing his demands for Will's safe return.  
  
"It's Weiss. The line's secure. We have exactly two minutes."  
  
"Weiss, Thank God! How's Vaughn?"  
  
"He's hospitalized. His fever's gone down a little, but they're still monitoring him. He's on about a dozen antibiotics. Are you sure the stuff he took a dunk in was just water?"  
  
"I don't know. Has he been lucid?"  
  
"In and out. The first coherent thing he said was 'Where's Sydney?' "  
  
"What hospital is he at?"  
  
"C'mon Syd," Weiss chided. "You know I can't tell you that. And don't pull any strings to try to find out. I said I'd keep you posted, and I will. Gotta go. Time's up."  
  
Sydney hung up the phone. She considered disregarding Weiss and combing every hospital in the greater L.A. area until she found Vaughn, but she needed Weiss's goodwill and support to get through the subsequent weeks of Vaughn's recovery--and an ally in the CIA to get him reinstated. The only thing she could now was sit and wait for his next update. 


	10. Recovery

Weiss knocked on the door of Vaughn's hospital room and glanced around the corner. It had been over a week since he had admitted Vaughn to the ICU. Although the doctors had attributed Vaughn's quick recovery to the series of potent antibiotics they had administered to clear the infection in his lungs, Weiss theorized it had more to do with the daily communiqués he himself brought from Sydney.

Despite his progress, Vaughn's doctors refused to discharge him until they were certain the infection would not reoccur. Looking at his friend, Weiss surmised that the doctors were right to be cautious. Vaughn was well enough to become irritated by forced bed rest, but not strong enough to be back on his feet. Although his natural color was slowly returning, there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he looked gaunt. Weiss guessed his friend had lost ten--maybe even fifteen pounds--since being admitted.

"Hey, how ya holdin' up?" he asked, walking into the room.

Vaughn rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw and glared at Weiss. "As well as can be expected, when they keep me cooped up in here. Get me out of here why don't you, and then I'll tell you how I'm doing."

Weiss shook his head. "No can do, Kemosabe. You're still under observation. I brought you something that might cheer you up, though," he said, lifting the bag up so Vaughn could see it. "It's from Syd."

Vaughn's eyes lit up. "How is she?"

"I just spoke to her. She just got back from Emily's funeral. Sloane gave her the week off. He thinks she's all broken up over Emily's death, when in reality she's worrying herself sick over you and Will. Hey, are you gonna open your present, or am I going to have to open it for you?" Weiss said, trying to steer the conversation away from work for the present.

Vaughn gave him an enigmatic look.

Weiss rolled his eyes and let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Okay, so I haven't been exactly supportive of your relationship with Syd up until now. You'll be happy to know that I have officially given up the view that it is possible to keep you apart, so that I can concentrate on keeping you both alive. Open your presents already. Let's see what she got you."

Vaughn took the bag from Weiss. It was heavy. Glancing at Weiss out of the corner of his eye, he pulled out the first package and unwrapped it. It was a beautiful leather-bound book almost as thick as it was wide.

Weiss whistled. "Whoa! Talk about a little light reading! You could use that thing as a doorstop!"

Vaughn ignored him and started flipping through the gilt-edged pages.

"War and Peace--in Russian," he mused out loud. Weiss looked nonplused, so he explained. "I was a Russian major back at Stanford. You know at that time the CIA still wanted all the new recruits to be fluent in a Slavic language. No one was even thinking about Arabic back then. I took Russian so it would look good on my application, but I ended up falling in love with the lit. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov--it didn't matter. I couldn't get enough of it. I always told myself I 'd go back and read everything again in the original, especially Tolstoy. How'd she know?"

Then it came to him.

"Does that mean I'm in?" Sydney had asked him, after giving him her statement about SD-6, which she had written out in long hand, going through two roller ball pens in the process.

"No, not yet. They're reviewing your statement. You wrote a lot," he remembered telling her. "I mean, it's like Tolstoy long. Devlin says it could take weeks to verify. But I know we could use another double agent in SD-6."

Vaughn grinned and shook his head. Clearly he wasn't the only one with a long memory.

"I'm going to grab some coffee," Weiss said dryly, his vicarious pleasure in watching Vaughn open Syd's presents decidedly dampened. "I'll be back in ten. Then we need to talk."

Vaughn nodded, barely acknowledging the fact that Weiss had left the room. While waiting to see if he had made it through the first round of interviews to join the CIA, he had toyed with the idea of applying to grad school. An undergraduate professor who had told him he had a talent for languages, and a gift for literary analysis, had given him an application for the Slavic program at Princeton. He'd gone so far as to fill out the application, but he had never sent it. By strange coincidence, he had found it a few months ago in a box of assorted papers. It made him stop and wonder what might have happened if he had ignored the urge to follow in his father's footsteps. Would he have met Sydney some other way?

Given his train of thought, he was truly startled by the next gift he unwrapped. It was a DVD collection of Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Trois Couleurs" trilogy. He'd taken his mother to see "Bleu" in Paris the year it was released. He'd seen "Blanc" at the L.A film festival, and he had taken Alice to see "Rouge" on their first date. Much to his chagrin, Alice had found it "boring." He'd attempted to explain the beauty and significance of the interweaving plots, telling her that Kieslowski had based his film trilogy of fate, chance, and love on the three colors of the French flag--blue for liberté, white for égalité, and red for solidarité--but then just gave up, concluding it was something you just "got" or you didn't.

At the time, he'd convinced himself that Alice's reaction wasn't what it actually was: one of the many small indications of their ultimate incompatibility. Looking back, Vaughn realized doubts had plagued him throughout his relationship with Alice, but he had ignored them, to both their detriment. He had no such doubts about Sydney. Every fiber of his being told him that if SD-6 wasn't an obstacle, they'd be together. He'd never felt so alive with anyone else or so naturally in tune. The question was, would they ever have the chance?

Vaughn reached in and pulled a third present out of the bag. It was a Brooks Brothers box. He half expected to open it up and find a shirt--all his shirts came from Brooks Brothers, and it no longer seemed surprising that Sydney might notice a detail like that. However, he was wrong. Inside was a pair of men's striped linen pajamas with his initials embroidered on the pocket. He'd had a pair like these, but he hadn't seen them since he'd broken up with Alice. She had had a habit of wearing the top half to bed and leaving him with the bottom half. However, it wasn't Alice he was picturing sharing these pajamas with--it was Sydney.

Looking surreptitiously at the door, Vaughn felt it would be wise to see what else might be in the bag before Weiss interrupted. From the bottom of the bag he pulled out a white gift card that simply said "Je t'aime."

So, she _had_ heard him. A boyish grin appeared on Vaughn's face, and he was still staring at the card when Weiss walked in. Weiss stood there for several seconds, and when Vaughn failed to acknowledge his presence, he cleared his throat loudly.

"I'm sorry to bring you down off Cloud Nine, Romeo, but there's something we need to discuss."

Vaughn frowned. "Now listen, if you're going to lecture me about the dangers of getting involved--"

"I told you, I'm done lecturing you about Syd," Weiss cut him off exasperatedly. "Besides, protocol is the least of our problems now. Something happened in Taipei --something you don't know about."

That got Vaughn's attention. "What are you talking about?" he asked sharply.

"While you were practicing your breast stroke, Syd came face to face with 'The Man,' " Weiss replied grimly, "and it wasn't our buddy Khasinau--it was her mother."

Vaughn did a double-take. "Her mother? How is that possible?"

Weiss shrugged. "Who knows? The point is Irina gave her an ultimatum--either Syd could come work for her or forfeit her own life and the lives of everyone close to her." Weiss gave his friend a hard look. "Mike, the scary thing is I believe she has the means to back up her threat. With both our offices bugged, and Haladki reporting to her every other day for months, she has more than enough information to blow Syd's cover. SD-6 is no longer our biggest threat--Irina is, and it looks like she's in control. Neither you, nor Will, nor Francie are safe, as long as Irina knows she can use you to get to Syd."

"So what's the plan?" Vaughn said, regaining his focus. "Have Jack and Devlin proposed anything?"

Weiss glanced at Vaughn. "Yeah, but you're not going to like it."

"Let me hear it."

Weiss sighed. "They want to make Syd a triple agent. She'll feed Irina information, while we work in the background to bring down both Irina and SD-6 simultaneously. Dixon will be in charge of keeping Syd's cover intact at SD-6, while you'll pose as the new CIA mole, so that you can back Sydney up without making Irina suspicious."

"Jesus Christ, Eric!"

"I said you wouldn't like it!"

"Becoming a triple agent is tantamount to receiving a death sentence!" Vaughn said, shoving a hand through his hair. "We can't protect Sydney as it is. How the hell can we protect her as a triple agent? One false move, and they'll be gunning for her from all sides! I can't believe Jack would agree to such a thing!"

Weiss threw up his hands in exasperation. "Mike, we don't have much choice! If Syd refuses, Irina will blow her cover at SD-6. Her life hangs in the balance either way. At least this way we have options."

"What have you told Syd?" Vaughn asked warily. "Has Irina tried to make contact with her since she got back from Taipei?"

Weiss shook his head in answer to both questions. "We wanted to talk with you first before approaching Syd. As far as we know, Irina hasn't tried making contact, but we can't be sure. You're the only one Syd trusts completely, Mike, and Devlin knows it. The operation doesn't stand a chance without your participation. He's waiting for your okay before giving the go ahead."

Vaughn snorted. "For someone who's still officially suspended, I certainly have a lot of clout."

"I didn't come here today just to bring you Syd's package," Weiss said quietly. "Devlin wants your answer by tomorrow, so that we can be ready when Irina finally does contact Sydney."

"You tell Devlin I'm not prepared to make any sort of decision until I talk to Sydney myself," Vaughn shot back, his eyes flashing with anger. " While you're at it, you can tell him I want to make a few requests on Sydney's behalf."

Vaughn outlined his demands, and Weiss shook his head. "You don't expect much, do you?"

"If Devlin can't arrange what I just described, it gives me that much less confidence in our ability to protect Sydney as a triple agent," Vaughn answered grimly.

Weiss started heading towards the door, stopped, and turned around to look at his friend. "You know, you're gaining a reputation at the office for being a renegade. Word about Taipei has gotten out," he said, a strange expression on his face.

Vaughn gave a short laugh. "What, no more jokes about Balls of Steel?"

Weiss smiled. "They're calling you 'the young Jack Bristow,' and I'm beginning to think maybe they're right."


	11. Café 312

Sydney sat on the couch in her living room trying to study. The Chai tea she had made herself earlier sat on the table next to her, forgotten. After reading the same sentence over twenty times, she finally threw down the book in exasperation and watched dispassionately as it slid off the couch and fell to the floor with a thud, cracking its spine in the fall.  
  
It was over a week since their return from Taipei, and she was feeling stonewalled. No one was talking to her. Her father called frequently to check up on her as he had promised, but he was evasive and refused to answer any of her questions about Will. Weiss met with her at least once a day to update her on Vaughn's status, but he too seemed unusually secretive, and she hadn't seen Dixon since before Emily's funeral.  
  
The funeral had been small. Sloane had asked her to say a few words at Emily's grave, and she had done so, talking about Emily's bravery in the face of her illness, her natural kindness, and her philanthropy. After placing an orchid on Emily's coffin, she watched it slowly being lowered into the ground. It was only when Sloane put a hand on her elbow that Sydney had realized that one by one, the other guests had already filed away, and she and Sloane were the only ones who remained at the graveside.  
  
"You and I have both lost someone now, but we have to remain strong. We have to continue on," he had said, his lips trembling slightly.  
  
It was everything she could do not to wrench her elbow from his grasp, revolted by the fact that he would dare to connect Emily's death with Danny's, knowing that she was aware of the role he had played in both.  
  
She had turned to look at him then, and was shocked by what she saw. She had never seen, nor ever thought to see, Arvin Sloane look so old, bereft and friendless. There were circles beneath his eyes, and he looked as if he were wearing another man's suit, so awkwardly did he fill it. Despite everything, she pitied him.  
  
He had seemed discomfited by her gaze. "I will be taking some time off," he had told her, clearing his throat nervously. "There are some things I need to attend to. Your father will be in charge during my absence. I suggest you take some time off yourself. I know how hard this is for you. You were the daughter Emily never had, and from what you've said, she became a mother to you."  
  
A mother, Sydney thought bitterly, her mind no longer on the funeral. She wasn't sure she grasped what that meant any more after coming face to face with Irina.  
  
Sydney's reverie was interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door. After a moment Francie backed into the apartment, her hands full of fabric swatches, paint samples and floor plans for her new restaurant.  
  
"Hey, how are the plans shaping up?" Sydney said forgetting her own thoughts for the moment and rushing over to help. "It looks like things are really coming along!"  
  
Francie rolled her eyes. "There are so many things to consider! I'm ready to pull my hair out! The previous owner is giving me a deal on the old light fixtures and table tops and chairs, but the whole place is screaming to be updated. That means new paint, new window treatments, maybe even new flooring. I won't even talk about what kind of renovations we need to make in the kitchen! Speaking of which, I'm famished. I've been working on this stuff so long, I totally forgot about lunch today."  
  
"Let me fix something to eat, and you can tell me all about it!" Sydney said, as they dumped everything onto the coffee table in the living room.  
  
"Hey, I know!" Francie exclaimed. "Let's call Will and order Chinese, instead. He loves it when we order from YY Noodles, and we haven't seen him in ages. It's like he's giving us the cold shoulder or something."  
  
"I'm sure he's just busy. You know, after being nominated for that prize, his editor probably switched him to a new beat or something," Sydney replied as casually as she could.  
  
"Oh, my God, Syd! We're like the worst friends ever!" Francie gasped. "We forgot all about the awards ceremony. No wonder he hasn't come around! How can we make it up to him?"  
  
Sydney wasn't as concerned about their absence at the awards ceremony as she was about Will's. Surely Weiss or one of the other case officers had come up with a cover to explain his absence. She couldn't help but worry, though. Should she call Weiss or try to make contact with her father? Sydney bit her lip, and gazed at Francie who was now perusing the Chinese takeout menu they had tacked to the bulletin board near the phone.  
  
Poor Francie. No matter what it was, she always seemed to be the one who got short-changed. Sydney couldn't remember the last time she forgot everything else and put Francie first.  
  
"It's been so long since we had time together just the two of us. Let's make this a girls' night. We can call Will and make it up to him tomorrow," Sydney suggested, hoping she could find out something about Will's status in the meantime. "What should we order?"  
  
"How about the Thursday night special: Kung-bao chicken, Shrimp Lo-mein, an order of dumplings, and wonton soup?"  
  
"That sounds great!" Sydney said, giving her roommate her widest smile in days. "How about an extra order of dumplings?"  
  
An hour later they were back in the living room pouring over Francie's plans and eating Chinese out of the paper containers with chopsticks.  
  
"So, I was thinking of this color yellow for the lunch area at the front of the restaurant, since it gets the most natural light, and a combination of burgundy, henna, and deep green for the formal dining room," Francie said showing Sydney the paint chips. "My friend Kat--you remember, the one into graphic design?--has promised to do murals for the walls, so you'll feel like you're in a European street café. Oh, and she's already designed the logo that will appear on the menus. What do you think?"  
  
Sydney picked up an dark green card with "Café 312" in a swirl of embossed gold lettering. "I think it's lovely, Francie! I really do!" she breathed, her eyes shining. "This is all so amazing! You've been dreaming about starting your own restaurant ever since we met, and now you're finally doing it!"  
  
Francie blushed. "I know. There's still a lot to be done before the grand opening, though. It's going to be September 29 before I know it, and I still haven't finalized the menu or got all the financing in order. When I realized the restaurant would need so much renovation, I was really worried I wouldn't find someone to back me, but then this investment group just contacted me, right out of the blue. I have a meeting with them tomorrow."  
  
"Francie, that's terrific! I'm so proud of you!" Sydney said, giving her friend a hug.  
  
Francie deserved nothing but happiness after the way Charlie had treated her. Sydney recalled her mother's ultimatum and shivered. Irina had told her that the she would be able to protect her friends only if she agreed to work with her and not against her. Now that Will had been dragged into her world of lies and betrayal, she wanted to do everything in her power to see that Francie remained safe.  
  
Just then the phone rang. "Don't get up," Sydney said. "I'll get it."  
  
When she returned, Francie closed her eyes, put her hands to the sides of her head and began rubbing her temples. "Let me guess, it's Will. He's coming over and bringing a quart of mint chocolate chip ice cream."  
  
"Nope, it was a wrong number," Sydney said, smiling, "but chocolate chip ice cream sounds really good right about now."  
  
"It figures," Francie groaned. "We haven't had a wrong number for weeks! Don't tell me it was for Joey's Pizza!"  
  
Sydney laughed. "Not unless Joey changed his name to Frank and went into the adult video business."  
  
"Eww! I swear, if we start getting calls like that, I am going to call the phone company and tell them to give us an unlisted number."  
  
Sydney grabbed her purse. "Now that you got me thinking about it, I'm going to get us some ice cream. I'll be back in a bit."  
  
She would have to talk to Weiss about his choice of signals. 


	12. The Mission

Weiss was already in the cage, leaning against a crate when she got to the warehouse.  
  
"Hi," Sydney said, as she approached him.  
  
"Hi," he said, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the dirty concrete floor.  
  
The first few moments of his meetings with Sydney were always awkward. It was as if the warehouse had absorbed the words and emotions from Sydney's past meetings with Vaughn. Weiss felt like an intruder every time he came here, so he had made a habit of starting with an update on Vaughn's status to dispel the tension his absence created.  
  
"I stopped by the hospital earlier today and gave Vaughn your package," he told her, trying to break the ice.  
  
Sydney could feel herself start to blush. "Do you think--I mean, did it seem to you like he liked the gifts?"  
  
Weiss grinned at her. "I think that would be an understatement. I had to reel him in. He was like--stratospheric."  
  
"When can I see him?" Sydney asked. "Will they be releasing him soon?"  
  
"It'll be a few days," Weiss cautioned. "In the meantime, we have a mission for you. You'll be leaving for France tomorrow afternoon to meet with a retired linguist named Jacques Vinneaux who might be able to give us more insight into the Rambaldi manuscript. He left the University of Paris because of an academic dispute and is now a bit of a recluse. He lives on a remote island off the coast of Brittany. You will pose as Marie Arnault, a graduate student at the Sorbonne, who has taken an interest in Rambaldi."  
  
"If he's such a recluse, why would Prof. Vinneaux agree to meet with me?" Sydney questioned.  
  
"He thinks you're the niece of an old friend," Weiss answered. "Your assignment is to show him the pictures of the Rambaldi page you used to secure Will's release and bring back any intel Vinneaux gives you. It should be a fairly standard op. We have no reason to believe Vinneaux is a threat, but it's always good to play it safe, especially since we don't know Irina's next move. A lot people--including your mother--would be interested in what Vinneaux has to say."  
  
Weiss glanced at Sydney, suddenly anxious. "Your mother hasn't contacted you, has she?"  
  
Sydney shook her head. She didn't want to think about her mother. The feelings their confrontation had aroused in her were still much too intense. She would have discussed Irina with Vaughn, but she couldn't bring herself to do so with Weiss.  
  
Weiss sighed. "Syd, you can't go on pretending it never happened," he said earnestly. "You may not realize it yet, but you're in a great deal of danger. Irina can blow your cover at SD-6 whenever she likes. You have to start preparing yourself to play the game on a whole new level. It's not just SD-6 we have to watch out for anymore."  
  
"I know, I just need a little more time," Sydney said quietly, the fatigue and strain of the last few days evident in her face. "Is there anything else?"  
  
"Actually, there is something else," Weiss said hesitantly, trying to anticipate her reaction. "Will's made a decision. He's going to become an operative."  
  
Sydney simply nodded. She had never believed Will would choose the witness protection program, but the news still came as a shock, nonetheless. "Has been assigned a cover yet?" she asked in a low voice.  
  
"Not exactly, but we're working on it," Weiss hedged. "Has Will ever done drugs that you know of?"  
  
Sydney frowned. "No! What kind of question is that? What are you implying?"  
  
"Well, according to the plan Devlin and your father are developing, he's gonna be picked up for heroin use and go into rehab, as a cover for his CIA training."  
  
"What? Eric, they can't do this!" Sydney cried. "It'll ruin his reputation. He'll lose his job, and no other paper in L.A. will hire him."  
  
"That's precisely what Devlin is hoping will happen," Weiss said uncomfortably.  
  
"You've got to be kidding!" Sydney exclaimed, horrified.  
  
Weiss forged ahead. "Look, Syd. Thanks to Jack's quick thinking, we caught Will's story on SD-6 before it went to press, but we can't erase people's memories. His editor, his co-workers, his intern all know he was investigating SD-6 in connection with Danny's death. We have to discredit him so completely that they'll consider the story just a crazy heroin- induced conspiracy. His personal safety depends on it. You've got to see that. The further he's removed from any connection to SD-6, the better, especially if we're going to use him as an operative."  
  
Sydney knew her father had retrieved the article Will had put in Abby's safekeeping in case he did not return from the rendezvous Jack had set up for him. What she did not know is that the mission to assassinate Will's character had already been launched. While retrieving Will's article, Jack had bugged the office so that the CIA could monitor the situation.  
  
At the appointed day and hour, Abby had opened the sealed envelope Will had given her and with trembling fingers, removed the article inside, staring at in disbelief. In small, 12-point type the word "Gotcha!" was repeated continuously to fill up the margins of all 7 pages of text.  
  
"The bloody little bastard!" Abby had cried. "I bet he's just on vacation!"  
  
Will's editor, who had been watching over Abby's shoulder, turned away in disgust.  
  
"I hope he's having fun," Litvak said sarcastically, "because it just might be permanent after that stunt."  
  
Weiss outlined what had occurred, and Sydney's eyes grew wide.  
  
"I can't believe this!" she cried. "Did you tell any of this to Will before he made his decision?"  
  
"I told him, and it didn't change his mind. He knows what he's getting into, Syd" Weiss replied, trying to keep his voice steady.  
  
Sydney turned away, and when she looked at him again he could see tears in her eyes. "Does anyone really know what they're getting into when they become an operative?" she asked in a low voice.  
  
Weiss stared down at the floor, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit. "Probably not," he admitted. "If they did, I doubt anyone would think the sacrifices were worth it. Things get complicated. You start losing your moral compass. You change, or it changes you."  
  
Sydney knew Weiss was thinking of how he had unwittingly betrayed Vaughn, and she touched his shoulder.  
  
"You've been a good friend--to Vaughn and to me. Taipei hasn't changed that."  
  
Weiss glanced up at her and smiled briefly. "Well, I should get going," he said, embarrassed. "Is there anything else you need before the mission?"  
  
"I want to see Will before I fly to France," Sydney stated, "--before all this comes crashing down on him. Do you think you could arrange it?"  
  
"I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do."  
  
Weiss turned to go, but Sydney stopped him. "Tell Vaughn--"  
  
"Wait until you can tell him yourself," Weiss said, cutting her off with a grin. "Good luck in France." 


	13. Will

Sydney didn't know how he had arranged it, but Weiss got her in to see Will the next morning, a few hours before she caught her plane to France.  
  
The safe house where they were keeping Will appeared to be a nondescript bungalow on a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. The CIA, however, was not taking any chances this time. A total of five agents had been assigned around-the- clock duty to ensure his safety--three undercover agents were positioned along the street and two inside. After frisking her and confirming her identity with Weiss via radio, the agents finally allowed her to see Will.  
  
"Syd!" Will exclaimed, jumping up to hug her. "Oh, my God, you don't know how glad I am to see you! It's like I'm on the set of 'Big Brother,' except I'm the only one left in the house."  
  
"They wouldn't let me see you before now, or I would have come sooner. Francie's been asking questions, and I've been so worried, but no one would tell me anything until yesterday," Syd explained. "Are you alright?"  
  
He looked like the same old Will in so many ways. He had on a comfortable UCLA sweatshirt Sydney had often seen him wear, an old pair of jeans, and his ratty high top sneakers. His eyes were bloodshot, though, and his jaw was streaked with faded yellow bruises. It troubled her that she couldn't quite define the expression which haunted his otherwise clear blue eyes.  
  
"I'm fine," Will lied. "They brought me an X-box about three days ago. You should see my top score on 'Halo.'"  
  
He could see Sydney wanted desperately to believe him, but was much too experienced an agent not to know better. But even if she suspected the truth, he simply couldn't bring himself to tell her about the nights he woke up screaming, or the complicated system the safe house guards had worked out to let him know exactly who was on duty at all times.  
  
"Will, I am so sorry," Sydney said brokenly, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. "I never wanted to bring you into this. I never wanted you to get hurt. Weiss told me about the newspaper and the heroin. No matter what my father or anyone else has said, you don't have to do this. You can still go into witness protection. Please don't think you have to do this."  
  
"Hey, no--Syd, ah, Jeez, don't cry," Will said in confusion, leading her to the couch and pulling her down beside him. "If you think I blame you for what happened, I don't," he said, rubbing her back awkwardly. "Listen-- listen to me. No one is forcing me to become an operative."  
  
Sydney tried to interrupt, but Will wouldn't let her, "Just wait. Listen."  
  
"Do you know why I decided to become a journalist?" he asked. "It was because I wanted to make a difference. I thought maybe--just maybe--I could write something that would make people think. Something that might make them perceive themselves and the world a little differently--get them to care, get them to take action and maybe make the world a better place. It may sound corny, but that's what I thought."  
  
"You know what?" he said, taking her shoulders and gently turning her around to face him, so that Sydney had no choice but to look him in the eye. "You do that--you make a difference. You make the world a better place. You don't just expose the bad guys. You take them down," he said earnestly, his eyes shining, as he looked at her. "If I can help you do that--then that's what I want to do. I don't care about my reputation at the newspaper or the trumped up drug charges, or anything else. I care about you, and if this is what I have to do to be a part of your life--so be it. I'll take the risk."  
  
"Will, you are a part of my life--the part of my life I work so hard to keep safe," Sydney said, taking his hands and gripping them tightly.  
  
Will shook his head. She still didn't understand.  
  
"Before all this happened I thought you were the warmest, smartest, most beautiful woman I have ever known, and now I realize that isn't even half of what you are," he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
Sydney gazed at him, and it physically hurt her to see the love in his eyes.  
  
"You're brave, and you're tough," he continued, "and you go out every single day and save the world, while Francie and I lead these little humdrum lives and welcome you home without a clue that you've been disarming nukes in Eastern Europe, or stealing computer code from terrorists in Saudia Arabia."  
  
"Will, stop it!" she protested. "You talk like I'm a hero. I'm not: I lie to my friends, I lie to my co-workers, I kill people when I have to, and you will, too, if you become an operative!"  
  
"Syd, you're not listening to what I am telling you. I saw how Michael Vaughn looked at you in Taipei," Will interrupted her, and she could see the pain in his eyes and understood the effort it took for him to talk about Vaughn. "He looked at you as if--as if the sun rose and set in your eyes! He thinks you're amazing, and he should know, right? He's seen you work; he assigns you the missions, and he's fallen in love with you: the 'you' I never get to see; the 'you,' you think is so awful," he said, his voice beginning to crack.  
  
"I can't go back to seeing you the old way, anymore than he can help loving the 'you' he sees, and if he thinks he loves you now, wait until he gets to know the 'you' I've known all these years." Tears stung his eyes, and he continued haltingly. "I know you love me as a friend, and I don't really expect any more than that. But I don't want to lose you--and I'll lose you for sure if I go into the witness protection program. So, Syd, don't--don't shut me out of your life," he pleaded. "This is what I want."  
  
Sydney threw her arms around him, her sobs muffled against his chest. Will rocked her silently, his tears falling into her hair. 


	14. Retribution

Weiss whistled for Donovan as he unlocked Vaughn's apartment door. He had been staying there for the last week watching Donovan while Vaughn was recuperating. With the long hours Weiss worked, it made sense, since he would have had to come twice a day to feed and walk him anyway. Donovan seemed glad to have him around. However, every time he heard the key in the lock, he would race to the door, expecting it to be Vaughn, and then whine when it turned out only to be Weiss. Today was no exception. The small white bulldog skidded to a stop at his feet, wagged his tail uncertainly, and looked up at Weiss, making small, plaintive sounds.  
  
"Yeah, don't give me those eyes," Weiss said in mock sternness, reaching down to scratch Donovan behind the ears. "I've had it up to here with puppy- dog eyes. First Sydney, now you. You want Vaughn, I know. Sorry to disappoint you, bud, but you're stuck with me for the time being, same as Syd."  
  
Weiss set his briefcase down on the kitchen counter. It had been a long day already, and it wasn't even noon yet. He stretched and then took off his holster, setting it beside the briefcase. He began rummaging around the kitchen, getting fresh water and putting half a can of dog food--per Mike's instructions--in Donovan's bowl. Afterwards, he grabbed a Coke from the fridge, leaving the Sam Adams for later that evening, and sat down to chill a few minutes before he took Donovan for a walk.  
  
He had to admit, he'd liked staying in Mike's apartment the last few days. Unlike Weiss, Vaughn had taken the trouble to furnish his apartment and was no longer subsisting on furniture from his college days. It had always seemed a little too GQ for Eric's taste--what with the dark Mission-style furniture and earth tone color scheme--but, it had been growing on him. He found himself once again studying the series of black and white photographs which lined the wall above the moss-green sofa. The first was of the Champs de Élysée, the second, a thatched-roof cottage set on the top of a hill with a view of the sea, and the third was of the Los Angeles skyline at night. He had known Mike for years before he discovered that he was an amateur photographer and had taken them himself. It occurred to Weiss that this was precisely the type of thing Sydney would want to know about Vaughn, and that he himself now took for granted.  
  
He constantly kidded Mike about how uptight he was, but Eric had to confess that he envied him in every way--his apartment, his Gallic good looks, and his girl. He had to get his mind off Syd and Vaughn. It seemed like it was all he could think about lately. Finishing off his Coke, Weiss went to the kitchen to throw the can away and then returned to the living room to search for Donovan's leash. He could never remember where he laid the damn thing down. He started shuffling through old newspapers and magazines, making a mental note to clean up before Vaughn got back.  
  
He heard Donovan whine behind him. "Just a sec, ol' boy," he said, "I think I found it."  
  
Donovan started to growl, gave one sharp bark, and high-tailed it into the bedroom. "What the heck's gotten into you, Donovan?" Weiss said, finally turning around.  
  
The front door was ajar, and Sark stood within a few feet of him, gun in hand.  
  
"Mr. Weiss, forgive me for the intrusion. I hope you don't mind. I've come to discuss a little business matter with you. I think you know to what I am referring," he said with a tight smile.  
  
"I don't know what you are talking about," Weiss replied, eyeing his handgun, which still lay on the kitchen counter at the far side of the room.  
  
Sark lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Before his rather untimely demise, Agent Haladki lead me to believe you two had reached an understanding. An agreement of sorts. Is that not so?"  
  
"There was no agreement. Haladki made a proposition; I listened. That was all," Weiss stated hotly, perspiration starting to collect on his brow.  
  
It was the truth. All he had done was listen, but that in itself was enough to constitute betrayal. If he hadn't violated Vaughn's trust and told Haladki that Vaughn suspected Sydney would try to rescue Will on her own, he doubted Haladki would have had the guts to approach him later that same day about spying on Vaughn and Sydney for "The Man."  
  
It was obvious to him now that Haladki had detected the growing rift between him and Vaughn, and had tried to exploit it for his own purposes. Weiss knew he should have gone back to Devlin and reported Haladki then and there, but he'd been too afraid of how his actions would be interpreted. It didn't matter that he had turned down Haladki's proposition to spy on Vaughn and Sydney. The CIA would focus on the fact that Haladki had felt justified in approaching him in the first place. He'd be branded as a potential mole, and his career would be over--just like that.  
  
A few hours later, when he had learned that Jack had executed Haladki, he'd felt as if he'd been given a reprieve. As far as he could tell, there was no one else besides Haladki who knew what had occurred. He had felt safe from recrimination, but his guilt over the situation had only grown. Vaughn had almost died in Taipei, and he blamed himself.  
  
He could have chosen to follow Vaughn to Taipei to rescue Will. It wasn't like he hadn't taken risks on Vaughn and Sydney's behalf before. After all, he had helped Jack and Vaughn kidnap Will in order to convince him to drop his investigation of SD-6, and he had even gone so far as to hold two federal agents at gunpoint while Jack and Vaughn freed Sydney from FBI custody. Self-interest had made him draw a line beyond which his friendship for Vaughn would not cross, and that line had been at Taipei. He would have given anything at this point to be able to go back and erase it.  
  
Since Vaughn had returned from Taipei, he had done everything in his power to rectify the damage he had done to their friendship. He thought he had expiated his guilt in the process--had even fooled himself into believing he had been fortunate enough to escape the consequences of his momentary moral weakness--that is up until now.  
  
Weiss glanced at Sark, and he became aware of how much the other man was enjoying watching him squirm.  
  
"What makes you think I am so eager to betray my country?" Weiss said, straightening his back and meeting Sark's gaze head on.  
  
"If you are implying our initial offer was not to your liking, perhaps something else can be arranged. My employer can be very generous, if it helps her get what she wants," Sark said, running a finger along Vaughn's bookcases, and casually picking up a photo of Vaughn as a young boy riding on his father's shoulders.  
  
"You work for Irina Derevko, Sydney's mother," Weiss stated, stalling for time.  
  
"Yes, I thought that was already clear," Sark replied. "Well, Mr. Weiss, may I convey your intentions to my employer?"  
  
"Tell her I gave it some thought, and I'm not interested in dying like Haladki at the hands of her husband," Weiss replied brazenly. "Why don't you approach Agent Vaughn? I think he might give you a different answer."  
  
It was a golden opportunity to establish Vaughn's cover as the new mole, and Weiss seized it.  
  
Sark ceased perusing Vaughn's possessions and replaced the family photo he had taken from the shelf, turning to face Weiss once more. "You've piqued my interest. I believe Agent Vaughn's father was given the same opportunity many years ago and had the arrogance to turn it down. Most unfortunate, don't you think, since it led to his demise. Incidentally, I would be very careful, before you think of doing the same," Sark cautioned, giving Weiss a hard look. "However, I am curious as to why you think Agent Vaughn would accept an offer you, yourself, have refused with such vehemence?"  
  
"How about the fact that he's in love with your employer's daughter?" Weiss shot back.  
  
"With Sydney? I see. Yes, that would change things," Sark remarked thoughtfully. "Sydney, however, has given no indication yet of wanting to work with her mother. In fact, I believe she has fled the country. You wouldn't by any chance know where she has gone or why Agent Vaughn has been discharged from the hospital slightly sooner than was previously expected?"  
  
"Not a clue," Weiss said, an edge creeping into his voice.  
  
"A pity--you could have saved us some time," Sark replied. "Well, I must say I am disappointed that you have chosen not to accept our offer, but it was good of you to suggest a replacement. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"  
  
Weiss swallowed as he saw Sark adjust the silencer on his handgun.  
  
"No?" Sark said, lifting one pale eyebrow. "In that case, do you have any last words, Mr. Weiss?"  
  
Weiss scowled. "F-"  
  
The word never left his mouth. He fell backwards, the bullet hitting him squarely in the chest. 


	15. Île Mariette

Sydney disembarked from the small fishing boat which had brought her to Île Mariette, feeling as if she had left more than the French mainland behind-- in fact, it felt as if she had stepped back in time. Brightly colored fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, as seagulls glided and swooped to inspect the day's catch. The skyline above the town of Kaertrez was broken only by a church steeple. Modest one and two-story white houses--some with blue shutters, others with green--nestled between the bluffs of the undulating coast. She could tell from the placement of the houses that the cobblestone streets would be narrow and winding.  
  
"It's beautiful!" Sydney said, more to herself than to the captain, who stood beside her, making sure his small fishing vessel, the Bihan Gouelanig, "The Little Seagull," was securely fastened to the dock.  
  
"Degemer mat," the captain responded, in what Sydney now knew to be Breizh, a language still spoken by the people along the western coast of Brittany that had more in common with the Celtic languages of Great Britain than it did with French. "Welcome to Île Mariette. May I be of any more service to you, now that you are here?"  
  
Realizing that his only passenger for the day was unfamiliar with Brittany or its culture, the captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, who was fluent in both French and Breizh, had regaled her with stories of the region. Having been settled by Celtic tribes early in its history, the coast of Brittany had been alternately ruled by England and France, until it came under permanent French governance in 1532. Although the people in the villages along the coast had assimilated into French culture and gradually lost their Breton traditions, island natives still spoke Breizh and preserved many of the old ways. This, however, was changing as more and more tourists came to Île D'Ouessant and Île Molene, the larger islands to the east of Île Mariette, the captain explained. Île Mariette was too small and remote for most tourists to bother with, even though it was no less beautiful than the other islands, and that, the captain led her to believe, was quite to the liking of the inhabitants of Île Mariette.  
  
"Non, merci," Sydney answered, smiling at the captain who had brought her over from the port at Le Conquet. "I can't thank you enough!"  
  
With a hand clasping her wide brimmed straw hat to her head, Sydney left the pier and began to climb the steep grassy knoll that lead to Jacques Vinneaux's cottage. The tall yellow grass danced in the wind around her, and in the distance she could spy the crashing waves cresting against the rough coast behind the cottage. Like the other houses she had seen in Kaertrez, it was a modest one-story white-washed building with a thatched roof. The front door and shutters were painted cerulean blue, and Sydney thought she had a rarely seen a more inviting retreat from civilization. No wonder Jacques Vinneaux had come to live on this beautiful island after he left the University of Paris.  
  
The captain of the Bihan Gouelanig had pointed out the cottage to her as they rounded the point. It stood by itself on a spit of land that jutted out into the sea. Sydney had gazed at it, leaning against the bow of the boat, clutching her hat, much like she was doing now. She had asked the captain whether he knew Jacques Vinneaux well, but he only chuckled.  
  
"I know him much better by another name," he had answered cryptically. "He has not always lived on Île Mariette, but his people have. He is a true Kernevad--a true Breton--despite his long absences. There are many on the island who hope he will stay now, for good."  
  
The old captain had glanced with grandfatherly affection at the slim, young woman in the simple red sundress who stood before him, taking her in from the tip of her straw hat to the tops of her sandals and enjoying the way the breeze played with the long strands of her dark hair.  
  
"I know he will be very happy to see you," he had continued, with a twinkle in his eye, "and I believe I will leave it at that."  
  
"Professor Vinneaux?" Sydney called, as she now approached the cottage.  
  
When there was no answer, she knocked on the door, waited a moment and called again. It was possible Vinneaux had stepped out, but surely he knew when the Bihan Gouelanig was getting in to port and when to expect her? Thinking perhaps that he was deaf, Sydney pulled the door latch, and finding the door unlocked, stepped inside.  
  
It took a second or two before her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. A man in a cable-knit fisherman's sweater was bent over the fireplace, his back turned to her, stacking kindling.  
  
"Professor Vinneaux?" Sydney inquired. "Excusez-moi. Je suis Marie--"  
  
The man turned around, and Sydney gasped, the hat she held in her hand slipping unnoticed to the floor. The next moment, she was in Vaughn's arms.  
  
"Vaughn! How--"  
  
He kissed her in answer, pressing her close to him with one hand on the small of her back and the other threaded through her hair. The kiss was long, slow, and sweetly sensual--one that encouraged rather than demanded her response.  
  
A dizzying sense of euphoria began to suffuse her from head to toe, and Sydney responded to his kiss with every fiber of her being, losing herself in it so completely she no longer knew where she ended and Vaughn began-- there was simply the kiss which united them. Nothing else existed. She wound her arms around his neck, seeking to prolong and deepen it even more.  
  
They were both breathless at the end of the kiss, Vaughn even more so than Sydney, which made her original question seem all the more pressing.  
  
"Vaughn, I don't understand! Weiss said you'd be in the hospital for several more days. He sent me here to meet with Jacques Vinneaux on a covert op for the CIA!"  
  
"I told him to tell you that, and I wish my only reason for doing so was to surprise you," Vaughn replied wistfully, running a hand through his hair. "The fact is that you are on a covert op--just not the one you thought. In fact, we both are."  
  
"Devlin knows you're here?" Sydney exclaimed.  
  
Vaughn nodded grimly. "The CIA wants you to become a triple agent. They want you to feed your mother information, while we work in the background to bring down both her and SD-6 simultaneously. Dixon would be in charge of keeping your cover intact at SD-6, while I'd pose as the new CIA mole, so that I could back you up without making your mother suspicious."  
  
It was all too much for her to take in. She understood her own potential role, but not Vaughn's. "Vaughn--why you? Why would anyone believe you'd become a mole?"  
  
Pain and regret mingled together in Vaughn's eyes. "Because the most persuasive lies are the ones closest to the truth," he said slowly. "Devlin knows the real question is not what I would do to protect you, but what I wouldn't do."  
  
A look of anguish spread across Sydney's face as the truth finally began to sink in. She had stolen documents from SD-6 and disobeyed CIA orders to save Will. She knew in her heart that she would have risked even more than that if it had been Vaughn, and not Will, whose life had been endangered. Would she have gone so far as to betray her country? Possibly, yes, but she would have tried to play all sides against each other first--which was precisely what the CIA was now asking them both to do.  
  
Suddenly, she was angry--angrier than she remembered being at any point since Danny's death. "The CIA's toying with us! They're toying with our emotions! They're making a mockery of our relationship. They're taking what's between us--something beautiful and--and--pure--and using it for their own ends!" She broke away from Vaughn's embrace and began to pace the worn floorboards of the small cottage.  
  
Vaughn simply stood and watched her, allowing her to progress through the same succession of emotions he himself had struggled with when Weiss had broken the news to him.  
  
"Does my father know?" she asked him, knitting her eyebrows.  
  
Vaughn nodded, his brow furrowed. "He formulated the plan."  
  
Sydney shook her head slowly back and forth, her eyes wide with shock. "No, I can't believe my father would do this. I know him now--better than I ever have. He wouldn't sanction something like this."  
  
However, she immediately recalled the disgrace that awaited Will, on account of the cover Jack had manufactured for him, and it made her not only doubt her father, but also wonder what else he had set in motion in the intervening weeks since they had returned from Taipei.  
  
"Syd, there's another way to look at it," Vaughn broke in, drawing her into his arms again. "Your father's a game theorist--the best one I know. There's no way this op can work without our cooperation. Irina may have the advantage, but we're the pivotal pieces on the board, which means we can leverage both sides. We've got more control than you think. Devlin didn't arrange this trip; I did. I told him that if he even wanted me to consider approaching you with the plan, he needed to give us time to strategize. And if the operation hinged on the fact that I was in love with you enough to betray my country, he damn well better give us some time alone so I can start acting like it."  
  
Sydney smiled at his vehemence, and Vaughn couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"You didn't really tell Devlin that, did you?" she asked, joining in his laughter.  
  
She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed. It felt so good, and little by little, the tension inside her began to ease.  
  
Vaughn looked sheepish. "That's what I told Weiss to tell Devlin. Weiss's actual phrasing was probably a little more diplomatic."  
  
"I think your father knew exactly what he was doing when he formulated this op," he continued in a more serious vein, once their laughter stopped. "It's extremely dangerous. I won't pretend it isn't. We still have to keep both our relationship and your status as a triple agent from SD-6, but we have the full backing of the CIA. They'll protect us as best they can. The rest we'll have to do ourselves."  
  
Sydney simply nodded. "How long do we have?"  
  
Vaughn smiled. "Two and a half days. Welcome to Île Mariette." 


	16. Melen Loar

Sydney gazed around the one-room cottage. Opposite the door at the far end of the room was a stone fireplace with two faded, but comfortably upholstered, green chairs set before it. A wooden bench with an upright back stood on the eastern wall, while a squat cooking stove and a sink with a long-handled pump took up the wall to the west. A small wooden table with two chairs was placed in the center of the room, while an alcove, which disclosed an incredibly soft-looking bed behind a set of partially closed red curtains, was situated to the right of the entrance. To the left of the front door was a shelf, crowded with seashells, framed pictures, and dog- eared books, swollen to twice their normal size from the salty sea air.  
  
Vaughn watched her taking in the surroundings, enjoying the look of curiosity and wonder that played across her face.  
  
"This cottage--you own it, don't you?" Sydney asked him, noticing the rather smug grin on his face. "The captain of the Bihan Gouelanig called you a Kernevad and told me your relatives have always been islanders. But you were born in Fleury. That's in Normandy, isn't it?"  
  
Vaughn nodded. "I inherited this cottage from my grandmother. She lived on Île Mariette her entire life. My mother grew up here, but left so that she could go to school in Paris."  
  
"Is that where she met your father--in Paris?" Sydney asked curiously.  
  
"Yeah, he was posing as an official at the American embassy while on an extended covert op for the CIA. My parents lived in Fleury for the first few years of their marriage. I was born there, and I still think of it as my childhood home, even though we moved to the States when I was five. While we lived in Fleury, we would come to Île Mariette all the time to see my grandmother, and even after moving to America, we came back to spend our summers with her here on the island."  
  
"I remember my grandmother trying to convince my mother to stay permanently after my father died," he continued, "but my mother told her that my father had been an American, and that he had wanted me to grow up at least partially in the United States. I think she thought about moving back here when I went to college, but my grandmother died shortly after I entered Stanford, and by that time, my mother had already made a life for herself in the United States."  
  
Besides their conversation in the train station, this was the most Vaughn had ever revealed about himself or his past. Sydney listened avidly. There was so much she wanted to learn about him. It seemed strange that she should feel so close to him and yet not know these basic facts.  
  
"Do you still vacation here every summer?" she asked.  
  
"Not nearly as often as I used to,"Vaughn confessed. "In fact, it's been years since I've been back here. I can't tell you how much I've missed it," he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "Do you want to see the rest of the island?"  
  
"I thought you'd never ask!" Sydney exclaimed, finding his buoyant spirits infectious.  
  
She followed him out the door, and he grabbed her hand as they climbed further up the point on which the cottage rested.  
  
She gazed at him then, relishing the opportunity to do so out in the open, with no thought to whom might be watching them or what danger might lie ahead. His high cheekbones appeared more sharply angled than usual and the weight he had lost as a result of his illness made him appear even taller. Although there were circles under his eyes, the lines that often furrowed his brow were completely gone, and she thought his green eyes had never appeared more vivid. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him, and the way he carried himself bespoke a quiet confidence and ease. Only his breathing--slightly faster than normal, considering they had just started out on their walk--indicated that he had not yet gained back all his strength after Taipei.  
  
Though the setting and mood could not have been more different, Sydney couldn't help but recall how they had held hands at the club in Taipei, threading their way through the crowded dance floor. Sexual tension had coursed and arced between them, and she blushed, thinking of how aggressively he had shoved aside the guy who had tried to pick her up. The feeling which bound her to Vaughn at this moment, if more placid, was no less strong. She felt as completely linked to him now as she had in Taipei.  
  
As they stopped at the pinnacle to watch the waves crash against rocks below, Sydney slipped her arm around his waist. Vaughn did the same, and it seemed to her like the most natural action in the world. For a brief moment, they were simply an ordinary couple come to enjoy the view.  
  
"How could you bear to leave Île Mariette at the end of those summers?" she asked softly. "I've been here for only a few hours, and I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else. Two days doesn't nearly seem enough, considering what lies ahead."  
  
She paused and looked up at him, her eyes troubled. "I don't know of any successful triple agents, Vaughn, do you? You only hear about the ones who fail."  
  
Vaughn tightened his arm around her. "That's because the successful ones complete their missions and then escape to remote islands under assumed names never to be heard from again."  
  
"Islands like Île Mariette?" she suggested lightly.  
  
Vaughn glanced at her, and she gave him a wistful smile.  
  
For one brief moment she allowed herself to imagine the tranquility and peace of such a life. Days filled with conversation, books, and long walks around the island, evenings in front of the fireplace, then falling asleep at night wrapped in Vaughn's arms. It filled her with such longing that she quickly pushed the thoughts away. She and Vaughn wouldn't be here on Île Mariette if they hadn't been assigned an extremely dangerous covert op, and dreams of the future were simply that: dreams and nothing more. Neither of them could afford to pin their hopes on a future that might never come to be.  
  
They gazed a few more moments at the churning sea below before turning to go.  
  
"Did Weiss come up with our aliases or did you?" she asked, as they started down the point again towards the village of Kaertrez, her thoughts returning once more to the mission.  
  
"Marie Arnault was my grandmother's maiden name. I used it as a kind of codeword for the captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, so that he would know who you were. I gave him explicit instructions to approach no one but you, and if anyone asked about you once he got back to Kaertrez, he was to say simply that you were my guest, coming to spend the weekend, and he hadn't quite caught your name."  
  
"Do you trust him?" Sydney asked even though she knew that Vaughn would not fail to be anything but careful, especially now that both her mother and SD- 6 would be suspicious of her whereabouts.  
  
Vaughn nodded. "A true Breton--a Kernevad--will keep a secret to his grave, and Jean-Luc Brochet is a Kernevad through and through. During World War II, all the islands off the coast of Brittany were occupied by the Germans, but only the inhabitants Île Mariette were successful in organizing any sort of underground resistance movement, perhaps because it was the smallest of the three islands and also the most close-knit. Brochet was one of leaders."  
  
"He didn't seem at all surprised when I referred to you as Jacques Vinneaux," Sydney commented. "Is that another family name?"  
  
"No, I just made it up. It was simply the second part of the code that would confirm your identity. I thought it sounded dashing and romantic, like the name of a character from a Dumas novel," he said giving her a lop- sided grin.  
  
Sydney laughed. "I thought Jacques Vinneaux sounded more like the name of a musketeer than a staid, old linguistics professor."  
  
Vaughn stopped for a moment to contemplate their surroundings, and Sydney looked around, trying to discern what exactly had captured his attention on the grassy knoll.  
  
"When I was a kid, a group of us would come up here and whack the hell out of each other with sticks, pretending to be The Three Musketeers," he explained, chuckling. "I remember one time someone caught me right here above my eye, and I bled like crazy. My mother almost fainted when she saw me and took me straight down to old Doc Giroux, and I had to have three stitches. If you look closely, you can still see the scar. I never really did grow out of the fascination, though. I think it was Dumas' novels that actually inspired me to take up fencing in college. I wasn't all that bad, either."  
  
"There's so much I want to show you," he said turning to her, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "Tomorrow, if you want, I'll take you to the lighthouse on the western end of the island. If the keeper is the same man I used to know, he'll let us climb up to the top and look out. It's really amazing. Seals sun themselves on the rocks over there, and I've even spotted dolphins once or twice off the shore. We could pack a lunch. Say, are you getting hungry?"  
  
"A little," Sydney admitted, smiling at the sudden change in subject.  
  
"Good! I'll finally get to take you to dinner. You won't believe it, but I know this great little restaurant. It's called the Yellow Moon--Melen Loar-- "  
  
Sydney laughed, recalling how he had asked her out to dinner while they were breaking into the Vatican.  
  
"But that doesn't mean that I've given up on taking you to Trattoria Dinardi someday," he said with a grin.  
  
"The next time we're in Italy," she agreed.  
  
As they walked along the harbor, Sydney discovered Vaughn not only knew every part of Île Mariette, but everyone on it. Shouts of "Bonjour, Michel!" and "Demat, Michel!" came from all sides as fishermen and boat captains hailed them from the pier. Not everyone greeted Sydney with the same enthusiasm, however. She thought she caught more than one envious glance from the young women they met on the narrow, winding streets of Kaertrez. Sydney gripped Vaughn's hand a bit more possessively, once again thinking of the dance club in Taipei and wondering what she would have done, if the tables had been turned and some woman had dared to approach Vaughn.  
  
"Did you ever spend time here with Alice?" she asked suddenly, trying to keep her voice neutral.  
  
Vaughn stared at her, much as he had that day at the carwash when she had asked him if he had had a fight with his wife. Over the last year, he had lost sleep worrying about her relationship first with Will, and then Noah. It had never occurred to him that Sydney could be jealous of Alice.  
  
Vaughn turned pensive. "No, I never brought her here," he replied, falling silent.  
  
Sydney glanced at him. His silence did nothing to allay her sudden insecurity, but she decided not to press him.  
  
They were quiet for a time, and Vaughn thought back--was it really just last summer that he had considered bringing Alice to Île Mariette? He remembered thinking that perhaps if they spent a week together on the island he loved so much, it would help them to repair their relationship and close the ever-growing gulf between them. He had mentioned the idea to Alice, and she had seemed interested, but some instinct had kept him from pursuing the matter further. He had always thought he'd propose to his future wife on Île Mariette and, despite all his attempts to convince himself otherwise, he had known even then that Alice wasn't the one he wanted to share the rest of his life with. They ended up putting off their visit to Île Mariette, and three weeks later, Sydney walked into his office, battered but defiant in her fire-engine-red, Run-Lola-Run hair. His life hadn't been the same since.  
  
They turned down a few more cobblestone streets, and when they reached the Melen Loar, Vaughn ushered Sydney inside the quaint and homey restaurant, which served as a local gathering place for the people of Kaertrez. Like everywhere else on the island, he was welcomed as an old friend the moment he stepped inside. Someone went to tell Madame Saval, the owner, that Michel had returned and that he was accompanied by a pretty young woman. A few moments later, a short, rather rotund woman, dressed in black with rosy cheeks and silver hair tied back with a lace hairnet, rushed out to greet them, drying her hands hastily on her white apron as she made her way past the tables.  
  
Vaughn nearly slipped up and introduced Sydney by her real name, but Syd quickly interrupted him and introduced herself to Madame Saval as Marie Vinneaux--deducing correctly that Arnault would no longer work as an alias-- and taking the surname of Vaughn's alias instead. Vaughn glanced at her, and she blushed.  
  
Madame Saval, however, seemed not to notice the fumbled introduction. After clicking her tongue in dissatisfaction over Vaughn's apparent weight loss and chastising him for staying away from the island for so long, she turned to Sydney and patted her cheek, saying something to Vaughn in Breizh, her blue eyes moist and kind. Vaughn smiled somewhat sadly, Sydney thought, as Madame Saval enfolded them both in a warm embrace.  
  
"What did she say?" Syd asked curiously, a few moments later, as Vaughn guided her to a table in the corner of the restaurant, which he hoped would afford them some privacy.  
  
He gazed at her uncertainly for a moment before he spoke, and then looked down at the table.  
  
"She assumed we were engaged," he said finally, finding it difficult to keep the wistfulness out of his voice. "She told me what a beautiful bride you'll make."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Vaughn glanced up at her, and the sadness and yearning he found in her eyes made him ache.  
  
He thought of the engagement ring he had seen Sydney wear for so many months after her fiancé's death. He knew he wasn't the first man who'd dreamed of spending his life with her--hell, he wasn't even the second or third, if you counted Will and Noah--and if things had turned out differently--if the world was just--she'd be married to Daniel Hecht right now and he wouldn't be sitting here mesmerized by the candlelight reflected in her eyes. What right had he even to hope for a happy ending? But, how could he not, when it was all he wanted in the world?  
  
The air was suddenly thick with things left unspoken between them: Hopes. Dreams. Desires. All of them made even more impossible by the increasingly complex web of lies and betrayal they found themselves caught in.  
  
"Syd--"he said softly, taking her hand.  
  
"It's okay," she replied in a low voice, giving him a small smile, but Vaughn could see the tears shining in her eyes, and he sighed.  
  
When Eric had first outlined the operation to him, all he could think of was that it would place Syd in even greater physical danger than she had been in previously. He hadn't stopped to consider the emotional cost of hiding their true feelings behind a cover they both wished so desperately to be true. He would have given anything to have walked into the Melen Loar and introduced Syd to Madame Saval simply as Sydney Bristow, the woman he loved, and not be forced to pretend she was Marie Vinneaux.  
  
"Syd, listen to me," he said earnestly. "I don't know what the future holds, but when you asked me to that Kings game, you said that you wanted something in your life to be real. This is real--my feelings for you are real--what's between us is real. Never doubt that."  
  
Sydney glanced up at him, and he held her gaze, hoping that she would realize that there was more emotion behind his words than he could readily express.  
  
Her heart skipped a beat, and she found it difficult to drag her gaze away as Madame Saval bustled over to their table, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Their conversation ceased as a waiter set the table in front of them. Madame Saval had insisted on cooking her specialties for them, and soon, dish after steaming dish was brought to their table: sole, baked in a white wine sauce, with mushrooms, shrimp, and scallops; lamb basted with red wine and herbs, which had simmered for hours; salad and plenty of crusty bread; coffee and impossibly flaky pastries for dessert. They found they could not concentrate on anything but the meal before them.  
  
At the end of the evening, Madame Saval refused Vaughn's attempt to pay. When Sydney and Vaughn rose to leave and go out into the cool night air, she asked them to wait, disappeared briefly, then came back with a lovely, intricately patterned wool shawl. Kissing Sydney on the cheek, Madame Saval draped the shawl around her shoulders, which were bared by the narrow straps of her sundress. Overcome by the old woman's kindness, Sydney pressed her cheek to Madame Saval's papery pink skin, and hugged her as they said their good-byes.  
  
Vaughn held the door of the Melen Loar for Sydney, and they stepped out into the evening. The night was clear, the full moon bright, and they could see the sweep of the Milky Way stretch across the dark expanse of the night sky. The melancholy sound of bells could be heard, pealing somewhere in the distance.  
  
"Are those church bells?" Sydney asked, drawing the shawl more tightly around her shoulders.  
  
Vaughn nodded. "There's a small cloister here on the island, and the bells ring four times a day for matins, none, vespers and compline, calling the nuns to prayer. I forgot how much I loved hearing them."  
  
"I used to attend services with my grandmother on the cloister grounds and this really profound, deep silence would fill the chapel sometimes," he recalled. "I remember thinking that somehow God was present, there in that silence. I'd go there sometimes just to sit and listen to it, especially after my father died. I can't tell you when I stopped going or why."  
  
They were both quiet for a few moments, each lost in thought. Sydney was the first to break the silence.  
  
"Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, all for your love's sake," she recited softly to herself.  
  
Vaughn looked at her inquiringly, and Sydney blushed.  
  
"It's one of the few prayers I know by heart. After my mom died--that is, after she--Irina--left,"she said, stumbling in her efforts to articulate whatever connection Irina Derevko had to the woman she had once called her mother, "my father hired a nanny. She taught me that prayer, and we'd say it together each night before I went to bed. I thought I had forgotten it until that night in the plane when we were flying back from Taipei. Your lungs were congested and you were delirious. I didn't know if you'd survive the trip back to L.A., so I held your head in my lap and prayed."  
  
There was a tremor in her voice, and she looked up at him, tears in her eyes.  
  
"I thought after I lost Danny, I had nothing left to lose, and I was certain I'd never fall in love again," she said, her voice catching, "but I met you, and you gave me a reason to go on with my life that had nothing to do with revenge. You were the one person I could trust completely; the one person I could count on to be there for me; the one person who made me feel whole. You were my guardian angel," she said simply, smiling at him through her tears.  
  
She paused and took a deep breath before she continued, her voice still shaky.  
  
"I loved Danny, and that love was real, but when I thought I had been reunited with you in Taipei, only to face losing you on the trip home, I realized I truly would have lost everything if you died, because you'd become the one person I couldn't imagine living without."  
  
"But the thing that hurt most," she said, hardly able to get the words out, "was the realization that you had always been there for me, and when you needed me, I wasn't able to protect you. I was as helpless holding your head in my lap as I was when the security doors closed and trapped you on the other side. So I prayed and asked God to do what I couldn't. To spare you. To spare your life. Not for my sake, but for yours."  
  
Sydney stood before him, crying, her shoulders shaking from her sobs. Vaughn tenderly drew her into his arms, his own eyes stinging with tears. He held her tightly, kissing the top of her head, her forehead, her cheeks, her hair. Once her tears subsided, he drew her gently in the direction of his grandmother's cottage--toward home. 


	17. Risk

Jack was sitting in his office, studying the daily situation reports. SD-6 had received intel, confirmed by reliable sources, that Sark had boarded a plane in Taipei the previous evening headed for the United States, but the sources could not confirm the flight plan. In the likely event that Irina was sending Sark to LA to obtain Sydney's answer to the ultimatum, Jack had tasked Dixon with staking out her apartment.  
  
The CIA had wasted no time recruiting Dixon to be their next double agent inside SD-6. His assignment was to protect Sydney's identity as a triple agent and to assist her in executing future counter-missions. He was one of only a handful of people who knew that Sydney was currently in a remote, undisclosed location, strategizing a response to Irina's threat. Jack had briefed him early that morning.  
  
"I'm sorry I can't give you more specifics about the op," he had stated, but Dixon had dismissed his words with a shrug.  
  
"The fewer specifics I know, the less potential there is for me to compromise Sydney. Just tell me two things. Is Agent Vaughn with her now?"  
  
Jack had nodded and had seen Dixon visibly relax. "Good."  
  
"And the second thing?" Jack had inquired.  
  
Dixon had eyed him. "Jack, you know this woman and what she's capable of better than anyone else. Would Irina Derevko really kill her own daughter?"  
  
"There is no doubt in my mind that Sydney's life and the lives of Agent Vaughn, Ms. Calfo, and Mr. Tippin--perhaps even yours and mine--will be in jeopardy if Derevko feels that Sydney is not cooperating with her," Jack had replied. "Therefore, Irina Derevko must never doubt Sydney or her loyalty."  
  
"All right," Dixon had stated, his features resolute, and left to take up his position in front of Sydney's apartment.  
  
Jack could not have been more grateful for Dixon's assistance. So far, they had stayed one step ahead of Irina and succeeded in keeping Sydney out of harm's way.  
  
"If you're looking to make contact with my daughter, Mr. Sark, you won't find her in L.A.," Jack thought smugly.  
  
Then he frowned, his satisfaction short-lived. There was no denying the heightened danger of the situation, now that Sark was on the move. He did not expect to hear from Sydney, considering the nature of this particular mission. He could only assume that she had rendezvoused with Agent Vaughn earlier in the day and that, at least for the moment, they were both safe.  
  
Jack checked his watch. It was now quarter to twelve--France was nine hours ahead. That would make it almost 9 o'clock in the evening there--Sydney and Vaughn's first evening together on Île Mariette.  
  
He thought back to the flight coming home from Taipei, recalling how Sydney had cradled Vaughn's feverish head in her lap, and the fear and helplessness he had seen in her eyes. Had he made the right choice, giving them the protection of a CIA cover and his own tacit approval to embark on a romantic liaison? Jack sighed. Whether downfall or salvation, they would each have to deal with the consequences.  
  
He grabbed his coat and headed out of the office, telling Seth that he was going to lunch and that he would be back later, after an afternoon appointment. As soon as he stepped out of the parking garage elevator, he took out his CIA cell phone and punched in the code name 'Sentinel.'"  
  
"Dixon, update me on your surveillance," he ordered, heading towards his Town Car.  
  
"Your instincts were right," Dixon reported. "Sark went straight from the airport to Syd's apartment and made contact with Francie. I have surveillance photos of her getting into a car with him and driving to an empty building in Silver Lake---the former Café De Lorca. Does this make sense to you?"  
  
"Francie told Sydney she was opening a restaurant--a new backer offered her money unexpectedly--not much of a leap," Jack explained tersely, unlocking his car door and getting in. "Were you able to continue surveillance once Sark and Francie arrived at the Café De Lorca?"  
  
"No audio, just visual. It looked like they were entering into some sort of business agreement. There was a written contract, which they both signed. Francie took one copy; Sark took the other. They shook hands. Francie called for a cab, and Sark drove off. I've been tracking him for about 15 minutes."  
  
"Where's he headed? We'll rendezvous," Jack said, leaving the parking garage.  
  
"North along the 1100 block of Elm, driving a green Jaguar XK8 convertible, license plate XLS17."  
  
"Did you say Elm?" Jack slammed on his breaks and executed a swift u-turn, amidst the heavy traffic of the intersection. "Agent Vaughn lives in an apartment building at 1638 Elm. I'll be there as soon as I can. And, Dixon, don't lose Sark," he said with unmistakable menace.  
  
He floored the accelerator, his thoughts speeding ahead. If Sark knew where Vaughn lived, it was possible he knew much more. Sydney and Vaughn's mission may already have been compromised.  
  
He pulled up a few minutes later, parking a safe distance from the ivy- covered brick apartment building, but close enough to monitor Vaughn's third floor corner apartment. It was a familiar spot--one he had staked out on a regular basis early on, getting to know the young agent's habits, noting the hours he kept, and monitoring who came and left his apartment.  
  
"Dixon, what's your location?"  
  
"I'm on the north side of the building," Dixon reported. "Sark just went inside. What do you want to do, Jack?"  
  
Jack sighed. "We watch, and we wait. If we apprehend Sark, Irina will know the CIA is monitoring her actions. Our best course of action is to try to discover what he knows and use it to strategize our next move."  
  
Just then he spotted a figure move behind the half closed blinds of Vaughn's apartment. There was a flash.  
  
"Jack--"  
  
"I saw it. Wait five minutes. If Sark, doesn't appear, follow me in."  
  
Jack took the stairs two at a time. When he reached Vaughn's apartment, he found the door ajar. Without a sound, he pulled the 9mm Glock from its holster. Glancing around the corner, he saw the window open and the blinds bouncing slightly in the breeze.  
  
He stepped warily around the corner, safety off, ready. Checking the room in a glance, he saw Eric Weiss lying on the floor, a large pool of blood seeping into the carpet beneath him. Jack was at the young agent's side in two strides. Weiss was coughing, his eyelids fluttering in shock. Jack gently lifted his head, and Weiss struggled to speak.  
  
"Sark," he wheezed.  
  
"I know. Lie still," Jack commanded. "I'm calling for backup."  
  
"Jack, I didn't--Tell Vaughn--I didn't--betray--" Weiss said, fighting to get the words out.  
  
"Look at me, Agent Weiss," Jack ordered. "Good. You'll get a chance to tell him yourself. Just lie still now," he said, more gently, examining his injuries.  
  
It was a chest wound, point-blank range. Jack shook his head, shocked that anyone could survive such a direct hit. With one hand pressed hard to the wound, he ripped open Weiss's shirt with the other, to find that the bullet had pierced a light, silvery, Kevlar-like material.  
  
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed CIA ops. "Homebase, this is Merlin. I need a medical team at 1638 Elm. Agent down. Requesting immediate backup."  
  
"Copy that, Merlin. Med team ETA 5 minutes."  
  
"Hold on, Mr. Weiss, just a few more minutes," Jack relayed.  
  
Weiss nodded, his breathing heavy, calmed by the steady voice of the older man by his side.  
  
Jack's thoughts returned to the Kevlar-like material Weiss wore under his suit. He recalled Devlin sending around a memo instructing desk agents to wear protective clothing made of an experimental and highly-classified material. Marshall had been working on a similar material after McKenas Cole's raid on SD-6 earlier that year.  
  
"In the Middle Ages, you know King Arthur? Guinevere? Lancelot? Knights of the Round Table? Courtly love?" Marshall had murmured hopefully, looking eagerly around the conference room. "Camelot!--Camelot!--you know, 'Rain may never fall 'till after sundown; By eight the morning fog must disappear,'" he had sung, becoming increasingly chagrined when the others had failed to join in.  
  
Looking importunately at Jack, but receiving nothing but a cold stare in return, he had continued, somewhat abashed.  
  
"Ah, okay, right, you're not big Lerner and Lowe fans. Well, a knight wouldn't be caught dead, heh-heh, without his chain mail. But chain mail was expensive, not to mention, ah, cumbersome. Okay, jump to present day. Forget the chain mail. What we have here is 'chain-lamé,'" Marshall stated proudly, unbuttoning his white oxford, to display a silvery t-shirt underneath. "Metallic micro-fibers, interwoven for superior tensile strength--three thousand strands per inch of cloth, making it 100 times stronger than Kevlar and as lightweight as silk--not to mention very smooth to the touch--woo, woo!" he tittered, running his hands down his own chest. "Now if Guinevere had ever gotten her hands on this--"  
  
It was at that point that Sloane had cleared his throat and cut Marshall off.  
  
Jack shook his head once more. Whatever this particular material was, it hadn't been designed to sustain a shot at point blank range. It had, however, succeeded in changing the bullet's trajectory. There was no telling what internal damage Weiss had suffered, but very probably, the vest had saved his life.  
  
Jack turned to see Dixon enter the apartment, his face registering shock at finding Weiss splayed out on the ground.  
  
Jack glanced at him questioningly, and Dixon shook his head.  
  
"He just disappeared. I can't explain it," he said quietly.  
  
Jack gave a stiff nod and returned his attention to Weiss.  
  
Dixon came and knelt by Weiss's side. Taking off his jacket, he placed it under Weiss's head, and then went into the kitchen, bringing back a handful of towels. Together, he and Jack pressed them to Weiss' chest and side to staunch the bleeding.  
  
Weiss gave him a weak smile. "Dixon--"  
  
"Yeah, didn't think we'd meet again quite like this. Just hold on. We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we can. You'll be up and around and harassing the nurses in no time," Dixon said giving him a wide, reassuring smile.  
  
Dixon kept Weiss alert until the medics came. Then he and Jack stood back and watched as Weiss was stabilized.  
  
Jack looked down at his blood-encrusted hands. A young agent handed him a handkerchief, and he wiped his hands automatically, deep in thought.  
  
The agent watched him, and then after several seconds, cleared his throat.  
  
"Agent Bristow--the task force is here. They're waiting for your orders."  
  
Jack glanced at the agent for the first time, and his features hardened once more. "Sweep the apartment--the usual precautions. Most importantly, check to see if anything has been removed--get someone in here who ferrets, I want the best. And clean up the blood. If the stain can't be removed, rip up the carpet and replace it. And keep me posted on Agent Weiss' condition," he said looking down at the blood-stained handkerchief.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He did not want Weiss' blood to be the first sight to greet Vaughn upon his return from Île Mariette. It would be hard enough to convince him that he was not responsible for his friend's fate. Jack knew that, like Sydney, Michael Vaughn tended to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and would, no doubt, add this burden to the weight he already bore. The blame for this tragedy, however, rested elsewhere.  
  
"Jack, are you alright?" Dixon asked, interrupting his thoughts.  
  
Jack looked up to find the other agent studying him.  
  
"You think Sark knows where to find Syd and Vaughn," Dixon said gravely. It was more a statement than a question.  
  
Jack shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. Go back to SD-6, while I try to find out. Write a normal mission brief detailing your surveillance. Tell security section you contacted me and, despite our pursuit, Sark evaded capture. I will corroborate your story. But make sure SD-6 does not learn that Sark came to Vaughn's apartment."  
  
Dixon gave a curt nod. "Let me know if you need anything else. About Agent Weiss's condition--"  
  
"I'll keep you posted," Jack said, as Dixon turned to leave.  
  
Jack moved away from the frenzy of activity to let the specialists do their jobs. When the task team finally departed, he looked around the room, seeing it for the first time as Michael Vaughn's home, not a crime scene. Although he had staked out Vaughn's apartment on several occasions, this was the first time he had ever been inside.  
  
He took note of the Mission-style furniture; the muted earth-tone color scheme; the neat stacks of CD's of Jazz greats: Bill Evans, Ella Fitzgerald, Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis; the bookcases filled with a mix of dog-eared paperbacks and scuffed hardcover editions, obviously read and thumbed-through many times. With an odd sense of discomfort, Jack thought back to the suspicions which initially had prompted him to stake out the apartment of Sydney's young and somewhat brash handler.  
  
He had considered Vaughn callow and naïve back then--a mere boy playing at things better left to men who could do what had to be done and could live with the consequences. Convinced that Vaughn would one day make a mistake that would jeopardize Sydney's life, Jack had observed his behavior, trailed him on occasion, monitored his meetings with Sydney, and double- checked the counter missions he assigned her. His concern had been justified: Vaughn's initial response to the Dinatti Park showdown would most certainly have blown Sydney's cover and cost her her life, had he not convinced Vaughn to allow Sydney to make the drop and regain Sloane's trust.  
  
Subsequent events, however, had made him revise his opinion of the young agent. Vaughn had demonstrated an ability to think well under pressure and a willingness to take calculated risks, both in the midst of the McKenas Cole crisis, and during the imbroglio over the Rambaldi prophecy. The final proof had come after Tippin's abduction. When Vaughn had broken completely with CIA protocol in order to accompany Sydney to Taipei, Jack knew he could trust him to protect his daughter--no matter the cost.  
  
He made his way over to the row of bookcases and found his attention drawn to a framed picture of a group of hockey players crowded together to congratulate a teammate. At the center of the group, he recognized Michael Vaughn, his left eye bruised, and his bottom lip bloodied, brandishing a hockey stick in the air, a wide, happy smile lighting up his face, the brightness of which Jack had heretofore thought only Sydney could elicit.  
  
In spite of himself, he smiled. He had received his own formal education in game theory at MIT. Perhaps Vaughn had learned his on the ice.  
  
He began to scan the bookcase. For a CIA agent, Vaughn was exceptionally well-read. The collection ran the gamut from Dante, Proust, and Tolstoy in foreign editions, to DeLillo, Wolfe, Calvino and Eco. Perusing the titles, he paused, and took a slim volume from one of the shelves: The Lais of Marie de France. He flipped through it until he found "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," and smiled once more.  
  
The Arthurian legend had flourished in France, cultivated by Breton storytellers for centuries. In fact, tradition had it that the renowned isle of Avalon was one of a chain of islands off the coast of Brittany. An island perhaps not unlike Île Mariette itself. No doubt Vaughn had grown up immersed in such tales.  
  
Jack frowned. He had ridiculed Vaughn for his ideals, chastised him for his simplistic moral code, and reprimanded him for his volatile emotions-- watching with serious misgivings as the relationship between his daughter and her handler deepened. But the truth was, he remembered all too well, how it felt to be young, idealistic, and in love--able to trust, willing to be vulnerable--and it had led him to make the worst mistake of his life. Now, almost thirty years later, he was still enduring the consequences, condemned to watch the endless circles of pain widen to encompass more and more lives. But Sydney was not her mother, and Vaughn had not been forced to make the decisions he, himself, had had to make--at least not yet.  
  
He stepped away from the bookcases and turned his attention to the matted and framed black and white photographs which hung over the couch, pausing to savor the quality of the work. Whoever the photographer was, he had talent. Such a well-documented tourist site as the Champs Élysée captured from a fresh perspective. A shot of the Los Angeles skyline at night, demonstrating the photographer's mastery of working in low-light. However, the middle photograph, a small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast, struck him as the most artful of the three. He studied its composition and tone, admiring the balance between sky, ocean, and jagged cliffs, and then froze, his blood chilling in his veins, certain that Sark-- trained by Irina Derevko, a master of observation and psychology--would know exactly how to find Sydney and Vaughn.  
  
A whimper arose behind him. Jack wheeled around--Glock pulled, safety off-- and aimed directly at the source of the sound, only to find a small, white bulldog peering up at him, his shiny black eyes mournful. Jack gave him a baleful look, but the dog simply wagged his tail timidly back and forth and made a plaintive sound, somewhere between a sob and a whine. Jack replaced the gun in his holster, bent down and scratched him behind the ears.  
  
"Well, Donovan," he said, reading the name off the silver medallion hanging from the dog's red collar. "What the hell do I do with you?"  
  
***  
  
Once again settled in the Town Car, Donovan seated beside him, Jack called Mrs. Zhang, his housekeeper.  
  
A familiar reedy voice answered, "Bristow residence."  
  
"Yes, Mrs. Zhang. I'll be stopping by briefly to drop off a houseguest, who will be staying with us for a short time," Jack said amiably, anticipating, with amusement, the reaction this statement would make on his usually unflappable housekeeper.  
  
There was a short silence on the other end of the line. In the twenty-two years she had worked for Mr. Bristow, he had never once entertained a houseguest. "Shall I prepare blue room?" she asked uncertainly.  
  
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Zhang. The houseguest in question is a bulldog. He belongs to a friend of Sydney's. We'll be looking after him while the owner is out of town."  
  
"Bulldog?" Mrs. Zhang paused again.  
  
"Yes, a bulldog, a little white bulldog, about the size of toaster." Jack could imagine her consternation. She was a disciplined woman whose love of order rivaled his own. She cared for his home with scrupulous attention. An animal in her domain might not be easily accommodated. However, Mrs. Zhang was also exceedingly fond of Sydney.  
  
"Friend of Sydney's?"  
  
"Yes, a very good friend of Sydney's."  
  
She then exclaimed warmly, "Of course, of course! Little white bulldog most welcome."  
  
"Alright, I'll see you in a few minutes," Jack said, smiling to himself.  
  
"Few minutes," Mrs. Zhang repeated, and Jack heard the sharp click of the receiver being returned to its cradle.  
  
***  
  
After depositing Donovan in the somewhat dubious, but capable hands of his housekeeper, Jack headed to Dr. Barnett's office. He knocked at her office door and awaited her response.  
  
He checked his watch. It was precisely three o'clock-making it midnight on Île Mariette. Sydney and Vaughn's first night together, spent oblivious to the fact that Sark was now on their trail.  
  
He shifted uneasily, and the door opened.  
  
"Jack, come in, sit down," said Dr. Barnett, greeting him with a smile that remained in her eyes longer than on her lips.  
  
For a moment, they studied each other. She was a handsome woman. Others might consider her long blonde hair most worthy of remark. For Jack it was her keen intelligence, so apparent in her piercing blue eyes. She was a formidable opponent.  
  
He took the seat across from her, folding his arms across his chest and tapped his fingers. This would not be an easy session. The stakes were exceptionally high, let her make the first move.  
  
"You seem particularly on edge today," Dr. Barnett observed, peering at Jack over her glasses. "Is it Sydney?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.  
  
He did not answer immediately, and Dr. Barnett waited patiently for his response, her eyebrows lifted. When none came, she pursed her lips.  
  
"Jack, I know Sydney's--situation--has changed--as a result of the confrontation with her mother in Taipei," she prodded gently.  
  
Jack gave her an appraising look.  
  
"Then you know I had to do something--unanticipated," he replied. "I suggested that Sydney appear to acquiesce in her mother's--proposal."  
  
Dr. Barnett simply nodded, expressing neither surprise nor condemnation.  
  
"Sydney is aware of your involvement?" she inquired in a reflective tone.  
  
"I believe that Agent Vaughn has informed her of it, yes."  
  
"But you have not spoken to her yourself?"  
  
"My daughter and Agent Vaughn are in a remote location, strategizing. Irina will be keeping Sydney under close surveillance. We cannot risk contact.  
  
His voice harsh, Jack continued, "This is not a tact we are employing blithely, Dr. Barnett. There is not a less dangerous strategy with as high a probability of success--in this scenario--with this enemy."  
  
Dr. Barnett paused to allow him a moment to consider his last statement, and then cocked her head.  
  
"Did you design the rendezvous as part of the op?" she asked quietly.  
  
"No. Agent Vaughn demanded that he and Sydney meet as a condition of his involvement," Jack answered evenly.  
  
"And your respect for him has increased as a result," she surmised, giving him a penetrating look.  
  
"It is what I would have done in his place," he averred.  
  
It was much more revealing an answer than she expected from a man as guarded as Jack Bristow--more revealing than if he had answered the question directly. Dr. Barnett looked thoughtful.  
  
"You and the Deputy Director, as well as others, have expressed concern about the nature of Vaughn and Sydney's feelings for each other," she said, choosing her words carefully. "However, the mission you designed sanctions their involvement in what appears to be a romantic relationship--something that the CIA would normally prohibit. Why?"  
  
Jack glowered at her in stony silence. Dr. Barnett matched his gaze. After a minute or more, Jack looked away.  
  
"I love my daughter, Dr. Barnett. If you have children, you know what that means," he answered, his voice shaking with emotion. "There is nothing I would not do to preserve Sydney's safety or vouchsafe her happiness. Too often I find the two exist in conflict."  
  
Jack swallowed. "My life with--Laura--which I believed to be founded on mutual trust, was, in actuality, a pretense based on lies," he said, stumbling over his wife's alias, his words strangling him as he choked back tears.  
  
He paused to compose himself, and then said quietly, "Ironically, for Sydney and Agent Vaughn, lies can create a foundation for the truth. A haven."  
  
"So, you would give Agent Vaughn and your daughter an opportunity to be together, even if it means putting their lives at risk in the process?" Dr Barnett asked gently.  
  
Jack's eyes flashed dangerously. "Their lives are at stake no matter what course of action we pursue. Sydney will either defeat her mother and take down SD-6, or she will die trying. Her mother," Jack spit out, filling the word with all the venom and loathing it could hold, "has seen to it there are no other alternatives."  
  
Dr. Barnett gazed at him, her blue eyes challenging, and Jack stared back at her coldly.  
  
"If you think there is another way out of this situation, you do not understand either my daughter or my wife." His words were precise, clipped, the sarcasm honed to perfection.  
  
"And Agent Vaughn?" she queried.  
  
Jack hesitated, and his expression changed. "In Taipei, I realized that the only thing that rivals a father's devotion is a man's willingness to sacrifice for the woman he loves," he answered, the anger slowly ebbing to resignation. "Michael Vaughn loves my daughter, and I believe he would give up his life before he would see her hurt. If I do not succeed in protecting Sydney from her mother, Agent Vaughn will find a way to do so."  
  
He paused, thinking of how he and Dixon had held Weiss' head only hours ago and staunched the blood pouring from his chest. "He must--I have staked her life on it."  
  
***  
  
He was sitting in his Town Car, watching the sun go down, lost in thought, when his cell phone rang once more. It was Devlin.  
  
"Jack, I don't like how this situation is developing," the Deputy Director said, his voice grim. "You know I had my doubts about this operation. The attack on Weiss makes Derevko's intentions clear. It's not too late. There's still time to call off the op, Jack, and put them both in witness protection."  
  
Jack took a deep breath and steeled himself. "That would be foolhardy, Ben. You know that if Sydney goes into witness protection, she'll blow both our covers at SD-6," he stated evenly. "By pretending to do what her mother wants, Sydney secures her own safety and the safety of those she loves, while giving us the leverage we need to defeat Derevko and bring down SD-6. She's safer as a triple than she'd ever be in witness protection with both Derevko and Sloane gunning for her."  
  
"Not if Sark follows them to Île Mariette and decides to shoot first and ask questions later!" Devlin replied heatedly.  
  
"Irina didn't send Sark to execute Weiss!" Jack shot back, growing more impatient. "She was hoping to use both Francie and Weiss as pawns, but that's not how it turned out. Sark duped Francie, but Weiss didn't play along, so he shot him."  
  
"You've lost me, Jack."  
  
"I believe Sark approached Weiss about becoming the new CIA mole," Jack explained, irritated that he should have to state something so obvious. "Weiss knew that Sydney's op is contingent on Agent Vaughn posing as the mole, and he was willing to sacrifice his own life in order to protect theirs."  
  
"That's a nice theory, Jack, but the risks of waiting are too high. We don't know whether Sark's working for Derevko or pursuing his own agenda. I'm going to contact your daughter and Agent Vaughn," Devlin stated obstinately. "We need to prepare them for a confrontation with Sark."  
  
"Do that and you'll be signing their death warrants!" Jack shouted angrily. "The only way this works, is if Derevko and Sark believe Sydney and Vaughn broke CIA protocol and went to Île Mariette for a lovers' tryst. Any contact with them right now puts the whole operation in jeopardy. Tell them nothing!"  
  
"I've got another call, hold on," Devlin interrupted. Jack sat back in his seat, fuming.  
  
"Jack, someone broke into the CIA storage facility early yesterday morning and stole Page 47. The breach was only discovered a few minutes ago, and agents reviewing the surveillance footage think it was Sydney. Can you explain what the hell is going on here? And don't tell me you authorized this--not after what you pulled in Taipei!"  
  
Jack swore underneath his breath. "Sydney thinks that by showing her mother Rambaldi's prophecy, she can redeem her and convince her to abandon her work--she couldn't be more deceived."  
  
"You'd better hope Sydney's right, or it won't matter what we do on our end," Devlin remarked, ominously. "It's your call, Jack. I just hope it's not too late." With that, he hung up.  
  
While they talked, day had faded into early evening. Headlights of passing cars briefly illuminated the interior of the Town Car. Shadows played across Jack's visage, alternately illumining and darkening his features.  
  
He stared at the road before him. Instead of seeing a parade of cars, Jack's mind fixed upon the photograph hanging above Vaughn's sofa, the small, thatched-roof cottage perched on top of a windswept coast. The same photograph Sark had seen. Fear wrapped icy tendrils around his heart.  
  
He rested his head briefly against the steering wheel. Though he had lost all faith in a loving, benevolent God long, long ago, he found himself praying.  
  
"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love's sake. Amen."  
  
"Dear God," he said softly. "What have I done? Have I forfeited their lives merely to grant them two days of happiness?" 


	18. Union

Vaughn unlocked the door of the darkened cottage and ushered Sydney inside. The only illumination came from the moonlight flowing between the half- drawn curtains on the windows. Islands of light formed amidst pools of shadow, and while most of the cottage remained cloaked in darkness, the bed in the corner of the room appeared a sea of silvery white.  
  
Sydney held her breath, her pulse racing, as Vaughn took her hands and drew her to him, so that they stood as one with the moonlight streaming from the window above the bed.  
  
Their first kiss, shared earlier that day, had taken them both by surprise. Until Sydney had walked into the cottage, Vaughn hadn't known he was going to kiss her. It had been brash--a decision made the instant he turned and saw her framed in the doorway. Although he had taken her by surprise, Syd's passionate response had been both immediate and instinctive. For a few, brief minutes, they had lived inside that kiss--the past, so full of pain, and the future, so full of uncertainty, ceasing to exist.  
  
They had no such illusions now, and the knowledge made this moment all the more poignant. What had seemed so impossible for so long was suddenly so close, so imminent, so heart-wrenchingly and achingly real. The chance they were taking was enormous--the danger genuine. There was no going back, no undoing what they were about to do. It would be a declaration, a promise, a vow, and a sacrament--marking either the sweetest of beginnings or the saddest substantiation of what could have been.  
  
Sydney placed her hands on Vaughn's hips just as she had when they had almost kissed on the plane coming back from Taipei. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, she glanced up at him and recognized in his eyes, desire, intermingled with a sense of wonder and deep vulnerability. She had seen it on his face many times, when he thought she wasn't looking--at the observatory, on the train, at the flower shop--as well as earlier that night at the restaurant, but never had she seen it expressed as openly and honestly as it was now.  
  
She gazed back at him, mesmerized by the gray-green luminescence of his eyes, watching him slowly bring his mouth down to hers. She closed her eyes, and Vaughn brushed her lips with his own. The sensation was so gentle, tentative, and sweet, it made her ache for more. Feeling his warm breath on her cheek, she exhaled, her lips parting to meet his.  
  
But, instead of returning immediately to her lips, Vaughn traced the line of her jaw with his mouth until he reached the delicate hollow behind her ear. Pausing to inhale the almond and vanilla scent of her body, he continued down her neck, kissing her milky white skin, shimmering in the moonlight.  
  
He lingered at the pulse-point of her throat, and Sydney gasped. Threading her fingers through his hair, she tenderly reached to bring his head up level with her own. She kissed his upper lip and then his lower lip, and finally sealed his mouth with her own. Vaughn clasped her face in his hands, gently exploring her mouth with his tongue, inviting her to do the same.  
  
She pressed herself against him, her entire body yearning for complete contact with his. Without removing his mouth from hers, Vaughn began sliding the straps of the red sundress down her shoulders, sending shivers cascading down her spine. In a moment the dress sank to the floor, joining the shawl already laying pooled at her feet. Sydney pulled insistently at Vaughn's fisherman's sweater and drew it up over his head.  
  
They paused. The action evoked for them both the memory of the flight back from Taipei when she had helped him remove the tight, black t-shirt in order to bandage his ribs. It had been the first time she had dared to touch him intimately. That moment had led them to this point, these actions, this place.  
  
Vaughn stood before her now, his bare chest bathed in moonlight. His clearly defined muscles were etched in silver, while the bandages around his torso, glowed a ghostly white.  
  
Sydney placed her hands lightly over his cracked ribs, thinking of how the wave had slammed him against the security doors in Taipei. Although separated from him by glass and steel, she had recoiled from the wave's impact, reacting to his pain as if it had been her own. On the plane, he had made light of his injuries for her sake--trying as always to spare her pain, when it was he who was hurting. She looked up at him now, her gaze full of concern. Was he doing so now?  
  
Vaughn responded simply by taking her hands in his. Lifting them to his lips, he kissed the abrasion marks still visible at the base of her wrists from the handcuffs Irina had shackled her with in Taipei, marveling at the fact that she could show so much concern for his injuries and pay so little heed to her own. He had seen her return from mission after mission--one set of injuries barely healed, before another set took its place. Would there come a time when he could peruse her body and not find the tell-tale signs of everything she endured? Gently cupping her chin in his hand, he kissed the faint bruise near her temple, where the guard had blindsided her with his gun.  
  
So many injuries. So much pain. They'd been through so much already; how much more would they have to endure?  
  
Sliding her hands through Vaughn's hair, Sydney drew his head back down and reached fervently for his mouth again with her own, her hands eagerly skimming across his shoulders, feeling the muscles of his back flex as she brought them around to his waist. As Vaughn reached behind her to undo her bra, she worked deftly at his belt buckle. It took only moments for them to shed the clothes which hindered them. They stood naked, together in the moonlight, and Vaughn gently drew her to the bed and down onto the feather mattress.  
  
The cottage had become a haven from the malevolent forces which battered them. Their futures could not be foreseen, let alone guaranteed, but they had tonight--time enough to explore the moon-drenched hollows and planes of each other's bodies with a tenderness mixed with awe. Every kiss a revelation, every touch a sign of greater commitment and intimacy until they both trembled with desire, on the verge of union. For one, brief instant, Sydney panicked and pulled back from him, her eyes wide with alarm.  
  
Somewhere along the way, the fear of abandonment that had haunted her since childhood had fused with the acute sense of self-preservation that espionage required, compelling her always to be on her guard and making it impossible for her to give herself completely to any of her previous lovers. Neither Danny nor Noah had realized that there was a limit to the intimacy she granted them, and in fact, she herself had been barely conscious of what it was she was withholding or why. There was simply the overwhelming need to remain in control.  
  
But, Vaughn sensed this need as he sensed everything about her. The look in his eyes silently entreated her to let go of that final, desperate line of inner defense--to be as vulnerable with him as he was willing to be with her.  
  
Seeing his eyes full of love, tenderness, and the purest, sweetest form of desire, she realized he understood her fragility while never doubting her strength. Sydney closed her eyes and tilted her head back, and he entered her like a key slipping into its lock. The feeling was exquisite, and her body responded instantly to his. A wave of sensations followed, each building on the other, radiating out from the center of her being. She moved with him, matching his passion with her own, letting it take her beyond all thought of safety or control. Her only desire was to be united with him, as much in body, as they were in heart and soul.  
  
He cradled her head in his hands, and as soon as his name was on her lips, his lips were on her words.  
  
As they lay in each other's arms, Syd could feel Vaughn's heart pound next to her own, gradually slowing to its natural rhythm. Perspiration clung to their bodies like dew.  
  
Vaughn kissed her temple and ran his hand through the tangle of dark hair, spread across the pillow.  
  
"Syd," he said, softly, "you asked me this afternoon if I ever brought Alice here, and I didn't answer you. Being born in Fleury, spending my summers here on Île Mariette--that's not information I've shared with a lot of people. I think I told you my father was transferred back to the United States when I was five. I started school in a new country--everything was strange, I was scared. The first day of kindergarten, the teacher asked each of us to go around in a circle and say our names. My turn came, and I saw all these little kids staring at me--and I introduced myself as Michel- -not Michael."  
  
Sydney winced, and Vaughn laughed ruefully. "I learned my lesson. Once I convinced them that my parents hadn't given me a girl's name, I made sure I didn't make the same mistake a second time. I blended in after that--and that meant downplaying everything French. I wouldn't even speak French with my parents--not until we flew back each summer to Île Mariette--I always relented about halfway through the trans-Atlantic flight, and then they couldn't shut me up."  
  
Sydney smiled, and Vaughn shifted his weight so that he could look directly into her eyes. "It's not quite like going undercover and becoming a double agent, but having a childhood split between two countries felt, at times, like leading a double life. Besides my family, there was absolutely no one I felt I could be truly open with--no one who saw me as I truly was--a mixture of both Michael and Michel."  
  
Tears pricked at Sydney's eyelids. She reached up and touched his cheek, running her thumb across the dark stubble on his chin.  
  
"I could have brought Alice to Île Mariette, but I didn't," Vaughn said in a low voice. "I wanted to share it with the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with, and deep down I knew Alice wasn't that woman."  
  
Sydney blinked, her heart pounding, almost forgetting to breathe. Vaughn gazed at her and continued on, a catch in his throat.  
  
"If you asked me the precise moment I fell in love with you, I don't think I could tell you. I know it started the moment you walked into my office; it intensified the night you grabbed my hand at the pier. But do you know when I realized how deeply you were ingrained in my soul? When I told you I loved you in Taipei, and the words that came out of my mouth were in French."  
  
Sydney's eyes reflected a turbulent mix of emotion as Vaughn went on, his voice rough.  
  
"When Weiss outlined this op, I didn't hesitate even for a second before I suggested that we rendezvous here on Île Mariette. I told Weiss it was because we needed time to strategize, in a place remote enough not to raise the suspicions of your mother or SD-6. But the truth is, all I could think of was how wonderful it would be to be here with you, on the island where I spent the best summers of my life. Syd, I realized then, that the person I had been waiting to share Île Mariette with was you."  
  
Sydney slowly brought his head down to hers, expressing with a kiss, everything she dare not put into words.  
  
It was enough. Vaughn sank down beside her, cradling her head on his shoulder, and when he shifted his weight slightly, she nestled closer to him, fitting in to his side. She closed her eyes. Vaughn tightened his arm around her, and they slept, his cheek resting on her hair.  
  
They were safe, but not for much longer. 


	19. Haven

Syd awoke to the rhythmic sound of rain striking the windowpanes of the cottage and the cloister bells tolling in the distance. The misty gray light informed her that it was still very early in the morning, The realization that she had spent the entire night in Vaughn's arms dawned inside her, filling her with its glow.  
  
He was still asleep, and she lifted her head from his chest, marveling at this wondrous man before her, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The way his tousled brown hair fell over his brow, the long lashes which brushed his cheeks, the cleft in his chin, and his lips parted slightly in slumber.  
  
"Vaughn?" she said softly.  
  
"Hmph?" came his muffled reply.  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Hmmm," he sighed contentedly, drawing her back into his arms.  
  
She once more laid her head on his chest, and the next time she awoke, it was to the smell of coffee brewing. Vaughn stood by the stove, his back turned, chopping bunches of dill and parsley and basil for an omlette. He was wearing the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas she had given him--the drawstring tied loosely, so that they hung low on his hips, and she smiled appreciatively at the sight.  
  
He had left the top half for her, draped at the foot of the bed. Slipping the soft linen pajama top over her head, she silently got up from the bed and quietly walked over to where Vaughn was standing. She put her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. His skin smelled fresh and clean.  
  
"Hey," he said softly, turning around and pulling her into his arms. "How did you sleep?"  
  
"Unbelievably well!" she answered, dimpling, thinking how wonderful it felt to wake up in his arms. "Did you hear the rain this morning?"  
  
He nodded. "I doubt we'll be able to go to the lighthouse today. The coast of Brittany gets more rain than any other part of France. Sorry--I should have warned you."  
  
Syd smiled. "I've always loved the sound of rain. I can't think of anything nicer than spending the afternoon here with you--preferably in front of a huge fire."  
  
Vaughn gazed at her, a shy, bemused smile playing on his face. "Syd, last night was--"  
  
"Truly amazing," she said softly, looking up into his eyes. "How are your ribs?"  
  
He laughed. "A little sore, but I'm okay--really."  
  
They smiled shyly at each other, and Vaughn reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
"Syd," he said, turning serious, "if Weiss or Barnett had asked me two weeks ago whether I thought I would ever have the chance to fall asleep in your arms and wake up beside you in the morning, I would have told them it was impossible--more than I could possibly hope for in this lifetime."  
  
He swallowed. "Now I can't imagine doing anything else."  
  
Syd nodded, tears pricking at her eyelids. She bit her lip, a sudden wave of dread seizing her. She began to shiver and Vaughn rubbed her shoulders.  
  
"Are you warm enough? It gets drafty in here," he said, concerned. "I can stoke up the fire."  
  
Sydney shook her head, her attention caught by the tattoo on his left arm. It was an intricately detailed coat of arms. A visored helmet, facing left, rested on top of a shield, depicting an avenging angel dressed in armor. Flaming sword in one hand and shield in the other, with his wings spread out behind him, the angel was shown crushing a writhing devil, in the guise of a dragon, beneath his right foot. The scene was inked in black against an azure background, and the colors were repeated again in the blue plumes of the mantle which unfurled on either side of the shield. Above the visored helmet appeared the motto "Fide et Fortitude."  
  
"Is it a military insignia?" she asked, tracing the pattern with the tip of her finger.  
  
"No, it's a family crest--the Delorme coat of arms," he answered, coloring slightly. "The Delormes were--are--an old aristocratic French family. Louis XI awarded the Ordre de Saint-Michel to Jean-Luc Delorme back in 1469. He named his son Michel, and it's been a family name ever since. In fact, I'm named after my grandfather, Michel Delorme. My grandfather came from one of the less well-to-do branches of the family that lost most of their money and land in the intervening centuries. But there's still a house and a small vineyard in Fleury that my mother inherited. That's where I grew up."  
  
"This is the first time you've mentioned your grandfather," Sydney observed.  
  
"That's because I never got the chance to get to know him, and neither did my mother," Vaughn answered. "He died before she was born, but she never tired of telling me stories about him. My grandfather was in the Resistance- -he and Jean-Luc Brochet, the captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, were good friends. He came to ÎIe Mariette on covert missions to exchange intel with Brochet, and that's how he met my grandmother."  
  
"How did he die?" Syd asked softly, already intuiting the answer.  
  
"He was captured while conveying intel to the Allied forces about the disposition of German troops, tortured, and then killed. You wouldn't believe what effect those stories had on my childhood, knowing my grandfather had died fighting in the French Resistance and that my father had done the same while working for the CIA."  
  
Sydney thought again of Vaughn as a small boy, brandishing a stick sword. "I can imagine," she said quietly. "When did you decide to get the tattoo?"  
  
"When I was eighteen--the year I put in the ten months of military training necessary to keep my dual citizenship. I was young, and all my buddies were getting them--the French flag, the name of a girlfriend. I chose the Delorme coat of arms--in honor of my grandfather. Kinda quixotic, I know," he said giving her one of his lop-sided grins. "But, hey, if you have any dragons that need slaying, I'm your man."  
  
Sydney laughed. "It suits you," she said simply, glancing once more at the avenging angel dressed in armor emblazoned on the coat of arms. Vaughn was her guardian angel, her knight errant, her confidant. If the Delorme motto "Faith and Fortitude" applied to anyone, it applied to Michael Vaughn.  
  
"Syd, if I could slay dragons, I'd start with Arvin Sloane," he stated quietly, studying her intently.  
  
Sydney glanced up at him, and her heart ached. "You told me once that it's not about cutting off an arm of the monster, it's about killing the monster. That's what we're doing--slaying the dragon," she replied. "We just have to earn our happily-ever-after, that's all."  
  
Then she smiled. "Do want help chopping? I can finish that while you work on the galettes."  
  
Vaughn shook his head and waved her away. "I've got things under control here. You can go take a bath, if you want. There's no running water, but I set up a tub in the corner behind the screen. I have one more kettle of water heating on the stove. Once I add that, the water should be ready. I left some towels and soap on the chair. Is there anything else you need?"  
  
Sydney smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. "No--you've thought of everything--except, well, I didn't bring a change of clothes."  
  
Vaughn smiled. "Look on the chair. There's a pair of jeans, a sweater, and some other things. I hope everything fits. I went to Macy's, and walked around cluelessly until a sales clerk asked me if I needed help. I explained I was taking my girlfriend on a surprise getaway to Great Britain, described your dimensions, and she helped me approximate your size."  
  
Sydney kissed him appreciatively. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome. Go soak. Breakfast will be on the table by the time you get done."  
  
Sydney shed her pajama top and stuck a toe into the large aluminum tub. The water was perfect. She stepped in and discovered there was just enough room to sit down, if she bent her knees. There was a bar of handmade honey and oatmeal soap on the chair next to the tub, and after she had lathered her entire body, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the sloping sides of the tub, marveling at how many kettles of water it had taken to fill it only a few inches. Vaughn must have been boiling water all morning just so that she could have a bath.  
  
Without meaning to, she dozed off, and when she awoke, she found that the water had cooled. Vaughn was at the side of the tub, pouring a new kettle of heated water into the bath. He was no longer dressed in the bottom half of the Brooks Brothers pajamas, but in a pair of jeans and a charcoal turtleneck.  
  
"Hey,"  
  
"Hey," she said smiling. "The water felt so good, I fell asleep."  
  
"Nothing like a tub to take a nap in. Sit up and I'll wash your hair. I've got just enough hot water left to help you rinse it."  
  
"Vaughn, you're spoiling me," she protested.  
  
"Somebody should," he smiled. "Sit up."  
  
He took the bottle of shampoo from the chair and poured a generous amount on her hair. The scent of lavender and freesia evoked French gardens, as Vaughn's strong fingers massaged her scalp. She let out a soft moan, and he laughed.  
  
"I thought I had discovered all your erogenous zones last night."  
  
"You've got me. The secret's out. I have a tub fetish," Syd sighed, blissfully. "We need to get a bigger tub, so you can join me."  
  
The implication of the words did not occur to her until the statement was out of her mouth. One night on Île Mariette, and she was already planning joint purchases! She felt herself blush, thankful that Vaughn was behind her and couldn't see her face.  
  
"I'll put that at the top of my list of improvements to make to the cottage," he told her seriously, hoping his voice didn't betray the goofy grin that had spread across his face. "I've been meaning to find out how much it would cost to put in electricity and plumbing, but it never seemed worth it, when my mother and I are hardly ever here."  
  
"Close your eyes," he said, and poured the last of the hot water from a pitcher over her head.  
  
"Vaughn, don't change a thing. I love everything just the way it is," she replied sincerely, when she could speak again. "That way it will be always be like it was when your grandmother was alive--the way it is for us now."  
  
She stood up and the water cascaded down her body in rivulets, coursing around her breasts and undulating over her hips and thighs and the flat plane of her stomach.  
  
"God, you're beautiful!" Vaughn breathed, and Syd knew that the hunger in his eyes had nothing to do with breakfast.  
  
She smiled and grabbed the soft oversized towel from the chair.  
  
Reluctantly Vaughn went to check on the food, and Syd pulled on the t-shirt and briefs, along with the pair of jeans and the blue cashmere sweater Vaughn had purchased. She chuckled, thinking of his expedition to Macy's, and stepped from behind the screen to find the table laid. She sat down delightedly, and Vaughn flipped a perfectly formed Mingaux cheese and herb omlette onto her plate. She took one of the galettes smothered in honey and passed the plate to him.  
  
"Vaughn, this is delicious!" Syd exclaimed. "If Francie only knew, she'd steal you and make you her sous-chef! She wouldn't be shocked at all if I told her you're from the CIA, because she'd think I meant the Culinary Institute of America."  
  
"Well, at least I've got an 'in' with Francie. I don't think my first meeting with Will went so well," he said ruefully. "How's he doing?"  
  
"He's decided to come work for the CIA. Truthfully, I'm worried about him. He looked like he hasn't slept at all since he got back from Taipei. Oh, Vaughn! They're going to discredit him by making him look like a heroin- addict. His reputation will be ruined, and he'll have to give up his job at the paper."  
  
"I know. Weiss told me," Vaughn replied grimly. "But I think it's for the best, Syd. We don't want Will to be any more of a target than he already is."  
  
He sighed heavily and his brow furrowed. "I guess we shouldn't put off the mission planning any longer. Let's finish eating, and then we'll begin strategizing our response to your mother's threat. As much as I'd like to pretend we're here for pleasure, you and I both know that isn't true. Which reminds me--I think I would have found the Rambaldi documents last night if you had concealed them on you" he said with the grin she had grown to love. "The only thing you brought with you was that straw hat. Where'd you stash them?"  
  
Sydney smiled mischievously.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "They're in the hat?"  
  
"I sewed them into the binding. If there is one thing I've learned from Marshall it's the importance of accessorizing when planning a mission," Sydney laughed, as she went over to the door to pick up the article in question. It still lay where it had slipped from her hand, moments before Vaughn had kissed her the day before.  
  
She pulled at the seam around the band and slowly slid a sheaf of tightly rolled documents out onto the table Vaughn had just cleared of dishes. He stepped away from the table and returned with books to pin down the edges.  
  
"Were the documents simply part of the cover mission, or was there a reason you wanted me to bring them to Île Mariette?" Syd asked.  
  
"I wanted to get another look at them--see if there was anything that might clue us in to Irina's next move."  
  
"In that case, there's something else you might want to see," Sydney said hesitantly, unfurling another sheet of tightly rolled parchment on the table, from which gazed a face uncannily like her own.  
  
"You stole Page 47 and brought it here?" Vaughn said running a hand through his hair until it stood up in spikes. "Syd, we should have discussed this!" he exclaimed, his words coming out in a rush.  
  
"Vaughn, when were we going to talk about it? You were in the hospital--"  
  
"You could have told Weiss--"  
  
"I didn't trust Weiss!" Sydney cried.  
  
He stared at her.  
  
Sydney sighed. "When you were delirious you told me about the argument you had with Weiss after Denpassar. About following protocol. I couldn't go to him--not about this!"  
  
"Syd, I don't think--"  
  
"Vaughn, my mother knew about the prophecy," Sydney interrupted urgently, her words tumbling over each other. "She thinks it's a hoax--something perpetrated by the CIA to keep us on opposite sides. But the possibility that it could be true--that she's the one Rambaldi prophesied would render utter devastation--it scared her, because she knew it would mean that she had misinterpreted Rambaldi and betrayed and killed for a utopia that would destroy the world, rather than save it. Don't you see? If we can prove that the prophecy is authentic, she might abandon her work. My mission was to come to Île Mariette and have the the Rambaldi pages analyzed by Prof. Vinneaux. I figured it was my only chance to get the prophecy independently verified, by a source outside of the CIA--someone she might trust."  
  
"So instead of infiltrating Irina's organization and bringing it down from the inside, you think you can convince her to turn herself in voluntarily?" he said, shaking his head. "Syd, that's a hell of a chance to take. Say we do convince her that the prophecy is authentic; that doesn't mean she'll believe she's the woman Rambaldi spoke of. If we fail to bring her in, that's it; the entire mission fails. We'll lose our best opportunity to take down her organization. Are you willing to risk that, with everything that hangs in the balance? Risking both our lives, not to mention the lives of Francie and Will, Dixon, and your father?"  
  
"She's my mother," Sydney stated simply. "I have to try."  
  
Vaughn gazed at her, troubled, his forehead creased with worry.  
  
Her eyes filled with tears. "When I saw my mother in Taipei, she told me everything she had done was to keep us safe from the political machinations of the world's superpowers. She called herself a citizen of the world, just like her father, and said she would do anything she had to do, so that her father's sacrifice was not in vain."  
  
"Her father?" Vaughn asked.  
  
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin, a nuclear physicist. She said the Soviet government discovered he was spying for the United States and sent him to Siberia, where he was later put to death without a trial."  
  
"Yuri Alexseivich Suvin? Are you sure?" Vaughn repeated. "Syd, Suvin was a nuclear physicist sent to the gulag and executed for being an American spy-- that much is true. It made the international news at the time. I researched Suvin as a part of my honors thesis at Stanford. But Suvin was turned in to the KGB by his family. If Irina Derevko is really Irina Suvina, it means she denounced her own father."  
  
Sydney looked stunned, and Vaughn grabbed her hand.  
  
"I know this has to be unbelievably hard for you," he continued, "but you have to realize something. Irina Derevko may be your mother, but she is also a master of manipulation--she knows you've been lied to and betrayed. Everything she said about Suvin and the faked Rambaldi prophecy was calculated to win your trust and make you doubt the CIA so that you'd come to work for her willingly."  
  
Syd countered swiftly. "But if we appear to acquiesce too easily to her ultimatum, without questioning the CIA's role, or simply reject her explanation of events without due consideration, she'll suspect the whole operation is a set up, and there'll be nothing preventing her from killing us on the spot!" Sydney cried. "If we play it right, bringing her the prophecy so that she can authenticate it herself will look like an act of good faith on our part!"  
  
"You sound as if you really believe there's a chance the CIA would fake the Rambaldi prophecy!" Vaughn replied, irritation evident in his voice.  
  
Sydney's lips trembled. "How would we know? You and I aren't Rambaldi experts. If the CIA can dupe Sloane with their fakes, who's to say they're not duping us?" she asked more softly this time. "I can't bear to be lied to again. Not by the CIA. I worked for SD-6 for seven years, thinking I was working for the good guys. I don't want to make the same mistake again."  
  
Vaughn looked at her in open disbelief.  
  
"Syd!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Stop and think about what you're saying- -"  
  
"I'm not saying I am convinced the CIA faked the prophecy," Sydney replied, her voice shaking now. "I am saying that the prophecy is the key to persuading my mother to abandon her work, and for that to happen, she needs to believe the prophecy is authentic. But if she's right and the prophecy's not authentic, we need to know what the CIA's true agenda is!" she cried angrily.  
  
"We know what the CIA's true agenda is!" Vaughn yelled, no longer able to contain his exasperation.  
  
"Then why are you upset by the fact that I want to authenticate the prophecy?" she shouted back.  
  
They stood nose to nose, glaring at each other for several seconds. Finally, Vaughn turned away. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, and when he faced her again, his expression was pained.  
  
"Why am I so upset? Because by doubting the CIA, you doubt me by extension, and that--hurts," he stated quietly. "Don't you think I'd come to you immediately if I suspected that the CIA was trying to play you--play us?"  
  
Sydney immediately felt abashed. "Vaughn, I didn't mean--"  
  
"Syd, you spend ten minutes with Irina Derevko, and you're already suspicious of the CIA's motives," he said coldly. "How long do you think it will take her to drive a wedge between us, so that you doubt me, too?"  
  
"Oh, God, Vaughn!" Sydney gasped, the full horror of their situation washing over her anew. The mission had barely begun, and she and Vaughn were already at each other's throats, only hours after making love for the first time.  
  
She felt battered by the emotions that engulfed her.  
  
How had it come to this? Had she been playing straight into Irina's hands-- the same hands that had held the gun which killed Vaughn's father in cold blood?  
  
"Vaughn, how are we going to get through this?" she whispered brokenly.  
  
"We'll get through it," he answered, grasping her shoulders, his voice firm. "But, Syd, you've got to know one thing: I'd never lie to you," he said, gazing at her steadily, his green eyes never leaving her face. "I've seen too many people deceive you and play on your loyalty, and I swore a long time ago that even if everyone else failed you, I would never betray your trust. Doubt everything else, but never doubt that."  
  
Sydney nodded. She sniffed and ran her hands through her hair, her features growing more resolute. "How do you want to play this?"  
  
Vaughn looked at her questioningly, and she met his gaze.  
  
"We're in this together--you've got as much say in how this plays out as I do."  
  
He sighed. "I don't know. I need more time to think it through. It never occurred to me that we might be able to bring your mother in willingly. I think better when I'm warm. Let's continue this conversation after we stoke the fire."  
  
A few moments later they were kneeling side by side near the hearth, arranging kindling and firewood. Sydney struck a match, and the kindling burst into flame, licking the logs above them. Vaughn left and returned with the quilt from the bed. He swept her up in its folds and pulled her back, until they were both seated on the rag rug before the fire, engulfed in the quilt. Syd leaned back until her shoulders rested on his chest, and her cheek rested near his chin. For at time they were both mesmerized by the orange and gold flames, dipping and weaving around the chinks in the logs.  
  
Syd was the first to break the silence.  
  
"Do you believe Rambaldi could foretell the future?"  
  
"I guess that depends on what you mean by 'foretelling,'" Vaughn said slowly, "Say he really did see into the future. If what he saw in his vision was only one of many possible futures, we still have a chance of altering it by our response to the prophecy, and the answer would be no. But if everything is predetermined, I guess it doesn't matter--no matter how we respond to the prophecy, the result will be the same. Who knows? Our response to the prophecy itself may have been predetermined and instead of thwarting it, our actions will help bring it to pass. I guess it all comes down to whether you believe in free will or fate."  
  
"What do you believe?"  
  
Vaughn did not answer immediately and jabbed meditatively at the fire with an iron poker, releasing a shower of variegated sparks from the log, which swirled up the chimney, and then floated down, glowing upon the hearth, until they cooled to ash.  
  
"If you'd asked me a few years ago, I would have said I agreed with Tolstoy: our freedom to act is constrained by the choices made by ourselves and others. Within the grid of possibilities still open to us, we have the opportunity to act freely, with no way of knowing how inconsequential or significant any of our actions will turn out to be in the future. But now I am not so sure. I think fate may play more of a role than I originally thought."  
  
"What made you change your mind?"  
  
"Meeting you."  
  
His answer took her breath away.  
  
Vaughn glanced at her.  
  
"I never told you this, but see this watch?" he said lifting his wrist, so that the silver links in the watch band glinted in the firelight. "It belonged to my father. It's broken now. But it used to keep perfect time, and when he gave it to me, he said that you can set your heart to this watch. It stopped October first, the day we meet. You don't know how many times I've looked at it and wondered what brought you into my life," he continued. "Was it divine intervention?--destiny?--a stroke of luck? If you think of all the things that had to fall into place for us to meet, it's hard to believe it was chance."  
  
They were both quiet for a time, thinking of alternate lives, alternate fates.  
  
"What career would you have chosen, if you hadn't decided to go into the CIA?" Sydney asked.  
  
"You mean besides goalie for the Kings?" Vaughn joked.  
  
"Besides that," Sydney said, hiding her smile in the quilt.  
  
"I thought about law for a time, but I guess I would have gone to Princeton, got my PhD in Russian Literature."  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"You sound surprised. How could you be surprised after buying me War and Peace, in Russian no less?"  
  
"It just means we could have met any number of ways," Sydney answered.  
  
"At an MLA conference, you mean."  
  
"Or at a lecture, or a bookstore--a coffee shop, even."  
  
"I could have been engaged to Alice; you might have married Danny," he cautioned.  
  
"I don't think it would have mattered," Syd answered in a low voice.  
  
"You don't know that. We'd be different people, leading different lives--" he protested, but it physically hurt him to think that there were alternate lives, alternate fates, that did not include a moment like this, the two of them wrapped together in his grandmother's quilt, in front of the warm glow of the fieldstone fireplace.  
  
"Perhaps you're right," he sighed. "Syd, I never told you the full story about my break up with Alice. It was messy--she accused me of having an affair with a co-worker, and I couldn't deny it, because the fact was, I was in love with another woman--that woman was you. It didn't matter that I hadn't acted on it yet.  
  
"After we broke up, I didn't see Alice again for several months, but we met up again at friend's house shortly after you returned from Arkhangelsk on your mission with Noah. I knew something had happened between the two of you, and it tore me up inside. I had no claims on you, but still, it hurt-- a lot. I wanted it to be me--not Noah--you turned to when you wanted someone--needed someone--in that way."  
  
"Vaughn, you don't have to explain," Syd said in a low voice, knowing what was coming and trying to forestall it, to spare them both.  
  
"No, I promised you a few minutes ago that I wouldn't lie to you, and I meant it," he said, stubbornly ignoring her protestations. "It's better to get everything out in the open, so we can go forward without any questions or doubts.  
  
"I used to dream about taking you to a hockey game or going out for pizza," he declared. "Even though I knew it wasn't realistic to expect you to wait for SD-6 to fall so that we could find out what we meant to each other, I just hoped you would wait--wait for me--I mean. And I had every intention of waiting for you. There was no one I wanted to be with more than you, but, after Noah, I realized that maybe you needed something else-- someone else--in your life, and that I should try to move on."  
  
Vaughn swallowed. "So I got back together with Alice. Even then I knew I had made a mistake. I wasn't being honest with myself, Alice, or you. Deep down I knew I wasn't trying to move on because I thought it was best. A part of me wanted to get back at you for sleeping with Noah. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I knew I couldn't continue the relationship with Alice, so I broke up with her again, shortly before we left for Denpassar."  
  
Sydney blinked. His words stung, and guilt washed over her anew for having hurt him. "I can't blame you for getting back together with Alice, after I slept with Noah. The truth is, I wanted to be with you, and when that seemed impossible, I used Noah as a substitute. When we got back to LA, and you asked about the trip, I knew I had betrayed something precious and unspoken between us, and it made me sick inside," she said her voice low, dipping her head, so that her hair fell in front of her face, and went on quickly. "There's something you should know, though."  
  
Vaughn glanced at her, steeling himself for whatever she might say next.  
  
"Noah asked me to go away with him. He said he had money in a Swiss bank account that he'd siphoned off from K-Directorate--enough money to live on a remote island somewhere and never be heard from again. I told him no, and when he asked why, I told him there were personal reasons. What I didn't tell him was that I was in love with you, and even though I couldn't be certain there'd ever be anything more between us, especially after what happened in Arkhangelsk, I couldn't leave, never knowing for sure. Noah wasn't the one I wanted to run off to a deserted island with--it was you. Who knew it would all lead here--to Île Mariette."  
  
Vaughn gave a short laugh and shook his head. "We have your father and Irina Derevko to thank for that."  
  
He wrapped her more tightly in his arms and kissed her hair. They both gazed into the fire. Sydney watched the embers burn a ghostly white around dancing blue and orange flames and thought about the relationships she had for models--Sloane's relationship with Emily, her parents' marriage--they were all based on deception and lies. Only Dixon and his wife Diane had given her a glimpse of what a happy committed relationship might be like. Except Dixon was also systematically lying to his wife about the nature of his work, just as she herself would have had to lie to Danny. It didn't matter that Dixon had switched sides and was now working for the "good guys" as a double agent for the CIA. The lies and the cover stories he told Diane were still the same.  
  
Vaughn's relationship models seemed no less tragic: a father he idolized, murdered in the prime of his life, a mother left widowed, so young. A grandfather who never got to see the daughter he had fathered or the grandson who would bear his name.  
  
A log popped, and then cracked in half, revealing a core of glowing orange.  
  
"Tell me more about your grandparents," Syd said softly, nestling against him.  
  
Vaughn smiled. If he was surprised at the change of subject, he didn't reveal it. He enjoyed talking about his family, and relished the opportunity to share this part of his personal life, once forbidden by protocol, with her.  
  
"Well," he began, "my grandmother grew up here on the island, as I told you. From the stories the islanders tell, she was a spitfire--didn't take any guff from anybody, stubborn and independent as hell, and liked to charm her way out of things, if she got in trouble. She was 19 when she met my grandfather. I think he was 34, so there was quite an age difference. I guess it didn't matter that much back then. From what my grandmother said, it was love at first sight."  
  
"It's funny," Vaughn continued. "I doubt my grandparents would have met, if it hadn't been for the war and the fact that my grandfather was in the Resistance. Like I told you, the Delormes were a rather well-to-do family, well-respected at the time, and my grandmother was a girl from a Breton fishing village. But the class difference wasn't the main issue. My grandfather was already estranged from his family when he met my grandmother. He was the youngest of three sons, and despite his parents' wishes, he refused to go into politics like his brothers, who held important positions in the Vichy government by that time. Needless to say, my grandfather didn't share their Nazi sympathies, but he pretended to, and was therefore well positioned to exploit theirs. From the declassified documents I've been able to dig up, he provided the Allies with valuable intelligence," Vaughn said, with evident pride. "And from the sound of it, my grandmother helped him."  
  
"It makes me think of 'Casablanca.'" Sydney said, smiling. "What was the name of Ilsa's husband--the French Resistance leader?"  
  
Vaughn laughed. "Laslo. Victor Laslo. He was played by Paul Henreid. I remember watching 'Casablanca' for the first time and thinking they'd based the character on my grandfather, because that's exactly how my grandmother described him: calm, cool, principled, and aristocratic."  
  
"So how did your grandparents meet?"  
  
"My grandfather was helping Jean-Luc Brochet load contraband onto a boat in the harbor, when they were almost caught by a patrolling Nazi soldier. My grandmother was passing by, figured out what was going on, and distracted the soldier long enough for them to finish loading the cargo and escape undetected. My grandfather asked Brochet who she was and took a real risk to make contact with her the next time he came to Île Mariette. It was quite romantic," he said, giving her a sideways glance and smile.  
  
"When did they marry?"  
  
"Shortly before my grandfather left on his last mission. He told her if all went well with this particular mission, the war would be over in a matter of months. They were married secretly in the convent chapel. He left the next day, and she never saw him again. Nine months later my mother was born."  
  
Sydney was silent. By marrying, Marie Arnault and Michel Delorme had defied the dangerous circumstances they found themselves in and made a bid for a future together. Were she and Vaughn so very different, embarking as they were on a clandestine romance, in defiance of CIA protocol and the threats posed by both SD-6 and her mother? Then, as now, the possibility of loss was real--after all, Michel Delorme had not survived his final mission. However, Sydney doubted Vaughn's grandparents would have chosen differently, even if they had known their time together would be cut tragically short.  
  
"Vaughn, if you knew this weekend would be all we'd have--would it change anything?"  
  
Vaughn glanced at her. "Do you remember what Ilsa told Rick in 'Casablanca'?"  
  
Sydney smiled, through her tears. "'We'll always have Paris.' "  
  
"I guess--at the very least--we can say we always had Île Mariette," he said softly.  
  
He turned her head towards him and kissed her. The kiss deepened, until they sank down onto the rag rug. One by one, layers of clothes were discarded, and they made love in the firelight, the orange glow flickering across their bodies, their union filled with a new and passionate desperation. Much later, they fell asleep in front of the fire, wrapped in the quilt, exhausted but content after winning another momentary respite from the danger they faced.  
  
Vaughn woke up with Sydney curled at his side, her hair, lacquered and burnished by the flames, spread out around her. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he arose and arranged the quilt around her shoulders. He dressed in the firelight and then walked across the room to the bookshelf. Taking down a small wooden box, he carried it over to the table and laid it on top of the Rambaldi documents which still lay unfurled on its surface.  
  
He opened the lid of the box, and inside were layers of family memorabilia: a stick figure drawing of a man sitting astride a horse, holding a lance, which he had made for his grandmother the summer he turned six; letters tied with a faded blue ribbon that his mother had written to his grandmother when she was studying at the Sorbonne; a sepia-toned picture of his mother as a baby; and another of a man in his thirties, with an aquiline nose and strong, determined gaze. Vaughn held this last photo for a long time, studying it intently. Then he glanced at the parchment on the table, and Irina's enigmatic gaze seemed to mock him.  
  
Two generations of his family had sacrificed love for duty and honor. His father and grandfather had died to defend their ideals and their countries. His mother and grandmother were strong women who had known love and had learned to survive its loss. He himself had grown up in the shadow of their grief. He'd be damned if he'd let the pattern continue to the third generation.  
  
Turning over his grandmother's box, he removed the false bottom, revealing a hidden compartment, containing a small velvet bag. He opened the drawstring, removed what was inside, and slipped it into his left hip pocket, with the peculiar and mystifying object he had carried with him since Taipei. Going over to his dufflebag, he removed his Sig Sauer and checked the cartridge.  
  
He was ready. 


	20. Confrontation

"Hey," Vaughn said softly, leaning down to touch Syd, where she lay on the rug near the fireplace, still curled up in the quilt.  
  
"Hey," Sydney said stretching.  
  
Then she sat up and listened. In the distance, she could hear the bells' clear tones ringing out their solemn melody. However, the musical counterpoint that had lulled her to sleep was missing. "What time is it?" she asked. "Has the rain stopped?"  
  
"Yeah, it quit a half hour ago," he said smiling. "The bells just rang for vespers. How about we walk to the lighthouse and watch the sunset, and then go eat at Melen Loar?"  
  
"That sounds wonderful!" Sydney said, pulling on her clothes.  
  
They both grabbed light jackets and headed out the door. The entire island was a dewy green seen only after a rain storm. The clouds began to break, and soon a golden light infused the landscape. By the time they reached the lighthouse, streaks of orange and yellow stretched across the sky. Standing side by side, they watched as the sun melted into the ocean and the sky deepened into vermillion.  
  
"Red sky at night, sailors' delight; Red sky at morn, sailors take warn. Do you think there's any truth to that saying?" Sydney mused.  
  
"Actually there is," Vaughn answered conversationally. "The red is produced by particles suspended in a high air pressure system. In the evening, that generally indicates good weather is coming, but if the red appears in the morning sky, then the high pressure system has already passed through and a storm's on its way."  
  
Syd flashed him a wide smile and shoved him.  
  
"What?" he said, laughing. "I've been surrounded since childhood by people who make their livelihood on the sea. It was easy to pick up a little of the lore."  
  
She looked at him thoughtfully. "You could be happy here, couldn't you? I mean really happy here."  
  
Vaughn turned serious, and then wistful. "Yeah---yeah, I could--under the right circumstances."  
  
They both knew what was behind his words. They fell silent and looked out to the sea.  
  
"There's an old Breton fisherman's prayer Jean-Luc taught me when I was a boy," he said quietly and recited it half under his breath. "'Father won't you carry me, for the ocean is wide and my boat is so small. Father, on this moonless night, help me cross the stormy sea. Out here in the darkness, help me find my way back home.'"  
  
Sydney glanced at him. It was a beautiful prayer, a testament of faith and hope but underlying it was an acknowledgement of the darkness threatening to consume them.  
  
"Why does this feel like all we're going to have?" she asked, filled with a sudden sense of foreboding.  
  
"Because there's no guarantee it isn't," he replied softly.  
  
"Vaughn, tell me you don't believe that!" she cried in desperation. "The only way I'll get through this is to believe that we'll be together someday. Tell me you believe that, too!"  
  
Vaughn looked out to sea again, and then turned to meet her questioning gaze once more as he pulled something out of his pocket. She watched as he took her right hand in his, his fingers trembling as he slid something onto her finger.  
  
It was a ring of exquisite workmanship, clearly not from this century. Two small pearls were set on either side of a small, square-cut ruby, while the engraved tendrils of a flowering vine twined in a continuous pattern around the ring's surface.  
  
He stood in front of her, hardly daring to breathe, and Sydney looked up at him in wonder.  
  
"Syd, my grandfather gave my grandmother this ring on their wedding day. It's been in the Delorme family for generations," he said in a low voice. "Giving it to you is all I've been able to think about since you arrived."  
  
"There's something engraved inside," he continued, his voice rough. "'A ma vie de coeur entier.' " He swallowed. "'You have my whole heart for my whole life.'"  
  
Tears filled Sydney's eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, but discovered she could not find the words.  
  
He cleared his throat, thickened with his own tears, and raised a hand to her cheek. "It may be a long time," he cautioned, "but, Syd, we'll find our way back home--we'll come back to Île Mariette, I promise. We can get married in the cloister chapel--just like my parents and grandparents. Until then, wear the ring on your right hand, not your left. It's an old Breton tradition. No one has to know what it means but us."  
  
Sydney nodded, gazing at him through her tears. It was a bid for the future- -for the happiness that might be theirs someday.  
  
They lingered on the shore, walking hand-in-hand, until the sun had entirely disappeared below the horizon, and then turned in the direction of Kaertrez for dinner at Melen Loar.  
  
"Do you think Madame Saval will notice?" Syd asked, just as they crested the hill above the harbor.  
  
Vaughn chuckled and kissed her right hand, on which she now wore his grandmother's ring. "You saw the fuss she made over us last night. I wouldn't be surprised if she started asking us how soon we were planning on having children."  
  
"Children?" Sydney teased.  
  
He flashed her a grin. "Maybe someday."  
  
Then the smile faded from his face. Sydney followed his gaze and saw a large crowd gathered at the harbor.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"I don't know," he answered, suddenly tense. "Let's go find out."  
  
Vaughn made his way down the side of the hill, and Sydney followed close behind. She saw him say a few words to the people at the edge of the crowd and watched as he slowly maneuvered his way through the throng to get to the pier. Sydney strained to see between the people in front of her, but she couldn't see Vaughn at all.  
  
Several minutes passed, until at last the crowd parted to let two men carrying a stretcher pass through. The body on the stretcher was badly bloated, the face and hands, a grayish blue. Sydney wanted to turn away from the sight, but there was something eerily familiar about the features. Then her stomach gave a sickening lurch. It was the twinkling-eyed, grandfatherly captain of the Bihan Gouelanig, Jean-Luc Brochet.  
  
Vaughn threaded his way through the crowd again, and came towards her, his face ashen. They stepped away from the crowd to where they could talk without being overheard.  
  
"I can't believe he's dead," he whispered.  
  
In many ways Jean-Luc Brochet had taken the place of his grandfather, while he was growing up. It was Brochet who had taught him to swim, to bait a hook, to set lobster traps, and clean a fish. In fact, he had spent much of his summers on the Bihan Gouelanig with Brochet, trawling for langoustine, monkfish, and cod. Brochet had always said he'd give him a partnership in the business, if he wanted it. Vaughn was only half-joking, when he told the old man that perhaps he'd take him up on the offer one day.  
  
"Vaughn, I'm sorry!" Sydney replied, putting a hand on his arm. "How did it happen?"  
  
His features hardened. "He was garroted with fishing line. Another boat captain found his body floating further out in the harbor and brought it in. Syd, we have to assume that either your mother or SD-6 followed us to Île Mariette and that Brochet caught them surveilling the island, and was silenced before he could warn us."  
  
She nodded. "I think we should contact base ops."  
  
"I brought a SAT phone," Vaughn responded. "It's in my duffle bag, back at the cottage."  
  
They exchanged looks. It was a short walk from the harbor to the cottage, but it was possible that whoever had killed Brochet was watching them right now.  
  
"It'll be dark soon," Vaughn said, pulling out the Sig Sauer he had concealed under his jacket. "We'll go back to the cottage by another route."  
  
"Vaughn--"Sydney said slowly. "You knew there was a possibility they'd follow us here, didn't you?"  
  
Somehow the concept of Sark and Irina following them to Île Mariette had never seemed real to her until now. From the moment she had stepped on shore, she had felt safe, as if she were enfolded in the island's embrace. Although the inevitable confrontation with her mother had loomed on the horizon and intruded on her thoughts, she had never imagined it would occur, here, now, on the island that she considered their sanctuary.  
  
Vaughn simply looked at her.  
  
"Are you ready for this?" he asked softly.  
  
Sydney nodded, her face resolute. "Let's go."  
  
They made their way back to the cottage, hearts pounding and nerves stretched taut, painfully aware of every twig that snapped and every shadow that crossed their path. When they reached the cottage. Sydney stilled Vaughn's hand as he reached to unlock the door and enter.  
  
"Someone could be inside," she whispered.  
  
Vaughn shook his head, and indicated the wet sand in front of the doorstep. There were two pairs of footprints leaving the cottage, but no footprints leading up to it besides their own. "This is the only entrance. If anyone approached the cottage, we'd know."  
  
Just to be safe, Vaughn unlocked the door and threw it open, gun extended. The room looked exactly as they left it: from the unmade bed in the corner and the breakfast dishes in the sink, to the Rambaldi documents unfurled on the table and the embers of their afternoon fire still glowing in the grate.  
  
They cautiously stepped inside, and Vaughn reached for his duffle bag.  
  
"Wait," Sydney said. "Give me the gun. I'll do recon while you talk to base ops."  
  
Vaughn reluctantly gave her the Sig Sauer, inwardly cursing himself for being caught with only one gun between them. "Okay, but stay in the shadows underneath the eaves--you'll be difficult to spot."  
  
He kissed her swiftly, and they parted.  
  
"Syd!" he called, as she headed toward the door.  
  
She turned her head and saw his brow creased with worry.  
  
"Be careful!"  
  
She nodded and slipped out the door.  
  
He dug out the SAT phone and punched the code into the keypad. There was no response, not even static. He punched the code in once more, to no avail. He was about to try a third time, when there was a noise at the door. Looking around for a weapon, Vaughn swiftly grabbed the knife he had used to chop herbs for the omlette, which still lay on the sideboard, and hid in the shadows behind the door.  
  
He held his breath as the door creaked open. Leaving the door partly ajar, someone moved to the middle of the room, closer to the light from the fireplace. Vaughn stepped out of the shadows, and with one quick motion grabbed the intruder from behind, pinning him with one arm while holding the knife to his throat.  
  
"I certainly hope you don't treat all your callers this way, Mr. Vaughn," Sark said with studied insouciance. "I assure you, we've merely come to pay our respects."  
  
"I suppose you were just paying your respects when you garroted Jean-Luc Brochet," Vaughn spit out, pressing the edge of the knife harder against Sark's throat.  
  
At that moment two more figures appeared on the threshold, both cloaked in shadows. One held a gun, the other had her hands slightly raised. For a brief instant, he mistook the captive for Sydney, and his heart thudded.  
  
"Syd," he called out hoarsely, and both women turned. It was then that he realized that the woman held at gunpoint was Irina. He felt as if he was seeing a double exposure--a picture of Sydney, as he now knew her to be, and what she would look like in 30 years. The slim, muscular physique, chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, expressive eyebrows, and full mouth were all the same. However the expression in Irina's eyes was enigmatic and coolly calculating. Vaughn realized he was looking into the eyes of his father's killer and not those of the mother of the woman he loved.  
  
Irina's eyes swept over the cottage, taking in the unmade bed in the corner, the parchments spread out across the kitchen table, and finally Vaughn himself.  
  
"Mr. Vaughn," Irina said quietly. "I'm sorry to startle you. We have no intention of harming you or Sydney. I've simply come for my daughter's answer." Her voice was low and throaty, and there was the hint of a smile on her lips.  
  
"How did you know we came to Île Mariette?" he questioned curtly, trying to keep his voice steady, a blood vessel pulsing at his throat.  
  
"Mr. Sark's visit to your apartment proved to be quite informative--you're quite a talented photographer," Irina stated with a small smile. "Of course, your friend Mr. Weiss, was quite helpful in his own way."  
  
"Such a pity I had to eliminate him--" Sark commented.  
  
Vaughn's eyes narrowed dangerously. Sydney watched as he pressed the knife further into Sark's throat, until a thin trickle of blood appeared on its blade. However, his arm was shaking badly, and she knew Sark saw it, too. His eyes glinted, and Sydney thought she knew exactly how the next 10 seconds would play out.  
  
"Vaughn!" she cried out in warning, but it was too late.  
  
Sark jabbed an elbow into Vaughn's cracked ribs, swung around, and knocked the knife from his hand. Vaughn doubled over in pain, clearly incapacitated, but as Sark grabbed for the knife that skittered across the floor, Vaughn suddenly rose up, wielding the iron poker, and caught Sark on the cheekbone with the up swing, and on the side of the head with the back swing. Sark hit the floor with a thud, a livid gash from temple to cheek, where the point of the poker had struck him.  
  
Vaughn looked at him in disgust, one hand bracing his ribs. He threw the poker down, then turned to Irina. "If you've come to make an offer," he said between gasps, "let's hear it."  
  
There was a glint of humor in Irina's dark eyes. "Mr. Sark warned me that any offer I made Sydney would have to include you. Now I see that he was right. The question, Mr. Vaughn, is why I should trust you?"  
  
Vaughn approached the table and removed something from the same pocket from which he had withdrawn his grandmother's ring earlier. Sydney's gaze darted uneasily between Vaughn and her mother.  
  
"I believe you may be missing a part of the Mueller device," Vaughn stated.  
  
It was the prism he had stolen from the lab in Taipei and shown to Sydney and Jack on the ride back to LA.  
  
"Where did you get this?" Irina breathed, approaching the table and hefting the prism in her palm, examining each facet, as she searched for the Rambaldi eye.  
  
"In Taipei."  
  
Irina arched a perfectly feathered eyebrow.  
  
"The CIA has no idea that I have it," he explained coolly. "Sydney and I both made it to the rendezvous point after destroying the Mueller device, but if she hadn't, I would have contacted you through back channels and offered to make a trade: Sydney's life for the prism. I believe that gives you a clear enough picture of where my loyalties lie."  
  
"It does," Irina said, with a small smile playing on her lips and something akin to admiration in her eyes.  
  
Vaughn's glance moved from Irina to Sydney and their eyes locked. Sydney swallowed, tears in her eyes. "The most persuasive lies are the ones closest to the truth," he had told her. "The real question is not what I would do to protect you, but what I wouldn't do."  
  
She watched carefully, her gun cocked and ready, as her mother approached Vaughn.  
  
"You look so much like William, but I see you've been tempered by your interaction with Jack," she said softly, her eyes shining. "You have your father's idealism and Jack's single-mindedness and strength."  
  
Fear, loathing, and anger all played across Vaughn's face, as he struggled to meet her gaze.  
  
"You murdered my father," he finally choked out, his voice low and filled with restrained anger. "They had to identify his body using dental records. You deceived and abandoned your husband and daughter, and nearly destroyed both their lives. You have no right to talk to me about either my father or Jack Bristow."  
  
"You believe you know the truth, Mr. Vaughn, but it is not what you think."  
  
"Then tell us the truth," Sydney interrupted harshly, and Irina turned to face her daughter.  
  
"Can you bear to hear the truth?" Irina asked.  
  
Neither Sydney nor Vaughn replied, and she sighed.  
  
"My real name is Irina Yurievna Suvina. My father was Yuri Alexseivich Suvin, a Russian physicist, who provided the United States with nuclear secrets during the Cold War. The summer I turned five, he received word that he had been compromised and that there was no hope of extraction. He had only hours to decide how to protect himself and his family. He sat my mother and me down and told us everything: the location of every dead drop, the contents of every communiqué, so that we could go to the Soviet authorities first and turn him in."  
  
Irina tossed her head back and cleared her throat softly.  
  
"Family members who turned in traitors were held in great regard by the Communist Party at that time, and sometimes went on to hold influential posts. My father feared that if we did not denounce him first, both my mother and I would be rounded up with him and sent to the gulag as well. So my mother and I went to the Party representative in the communal apartment where we lived. My mother told her she had come across some suspicious- looking correspondence in a false bottom of my father's desk, and I described how my father had met with a mysterious man while I played in the park. Men came for my father that night. My mother and I watched them take him away, and that was the last time I saw his face.  
  
"My mother was commended for her service to the Party," Irina went on bitterly. "I was given a red star to wear on my pinafore, but the memory of my father still burned in my heart. Fifteen years later, I was tapped to become an agent for the KGB. I outscored everyone in my class on the training exercises. My English was flawless. In short, my instructors thought I was the perfect undercover agent--they believed they could count on my loyalty, but that's where they miscalculated. I had joined the KGB in order to betray it."  
  
"I was sent to Washington with specific instructions to seduce and marry a high-ranking CIA agent. That agent was your father, Sydney. My objective was to gain as much information as I could about a project Jack Bristow designed--Project Christmas--a way of identifying and training children to be sleeper agents. I went to the CIA and told them everything--about my father, about why I joined the KGB, as well as the details of my mission. I told them I would tell them everything I knew if they would extract my mother and provide me with access to the intel my father had given them, and they agreed."  
  
"Even at the time, I knew I was playing a very dangerous game. If I had told Jack I was secretly working for the CIA, I would have had to reveal why I had married him in the first place. Therefore, every time I stole information from him, I risked being caught and having my cover as a KGB agent blown and my marriage destroyed. But if I stopped conveying intel to the KGB about Project Christmas, my true allegiance would be revealed, and my usefulness to the CIA would be terminated, as would my life, and the lives of my husband and daughter."  
  
"But things grew even more complicated. Providing intel on Project Christmas was only one of my objectives. After my cover as Laura Bristow was well established, the KGB began using me as an assassin to kill key CIA operatives, politicians and public figures. Your father had no idea the rare first-editions I collected were being used to convey intel to me about my next hit. I received my first kill order inside a rare edition of George Eliot's Middlemarch on Christmas Day,1974, when I was still pregnant with Sydney. I made contact with my CIA handler, and I was told in no uncertain terms to carry out my KGB orders, so that I could preserve my cover. Soon after that my handler was replaced by another agent. That agent was your father, Mr. Vaughn."  
  
"Are you saying that you told the CIA which agents and political figures were being targeted and they did nothing to stop the assassinations? And my father knew this?"  
  
"No, the CIA forbade me to discuss the KGB targets with your father. Only the highest ranking officials knew that I had CIA authorization to carry out those hits, so that, when the time came, they could prevent the assassination of the most critical of my targets without raising the suspicion of the KGB. That is why my original handler was reassigned and why I was given a new code name--The Savant. For many years, no one connected me to the assassinations. As the value of the intel I provided to the CIA increased, so did the list of CIA agents and political figures I was allowed to kill in order to preserve my cover. Your father, Mr. Vaughn, was the only one who suspected the truth. When he felt he had gathered enough evidence, he started asking the wrong sorts of questions, and making the wrong people nervous. He was beginning to realize what I had learned long ago: that I had made a deal with the devil, and there was no way out.  
  
Irina glanced at Vaughn. "As your father was pursuing his investigation into the deaths of the CIA agents and public figures I had assassinated, the KGB was getting reports about a double agent, codenamed The Savant who was conveying valuable intel to the CIA and must be stopped. They didn't know the identity of the agent, but they knew the identity of the agent's handler, and I was ordered to assassinate him."  
  
"So you killed your CIA handler--my father--to preserve your cover," Vaughn said hoarsely.  
  
"I did not kill your father, Mr. Vaughn," Irina said, turning to look into his green eyes. "The CIA did. I did everything I could to prevent it, and I failed. I refused to meet your father at the usual rendezvous point, requested another meet, and warned him to tell no one where he was meeting me or why. He may have suspected that I was leading him to his death, that perhaps I even intended to kill him, but he came anyway. I told him everything--all the sordid details--and warned him that if I didn't follow through on the order to assassinate him, I feared the CIA would. I will never forget his face," Irina said softly. "He should have condemned me. Instead, he opened his arms, and just held me, as I cried in his arms like a child. I asked what he intended to do, and he simply told me he'd take care of it. We left the warehouse, and just as he was getting into his car to leave, a sniper blew up the gas tank and the car exploded. The CIA brought me in, and told me that if I told anyone about William Vaughn's death or stopped providing them with intel, they would reveal to my husband that I was a KGB spy who had killed 12 agents and had married him only to get intel on Project Christmas."  
  
Sydney felt nauseated and when she turned to Vaughn, she saw that all the color had drained from his face. His lips were pressed into a thin line.  
  
"Tell me--"Vaughn started, and then swallowed, unable to continue.  
  
"Yes?" Irina responded.  
  
"How well did you know my father?" he asked, his voice strained.  
  
"You mean did we have an affair?" Irina replied, giving Vaughn a keen look. "William Vaughn was my handler and the most upright, gentle, and honorable man I have ever known--with the exception of my husband. We had a very close relationship," Irina continued, her voice tender, "but it was not sexual, nor could it be termed an affair. Your father loved you and your mother very much, Mr. Vaughn, and I would be dishonoring his memory if I led you to believe otherwise. He would never have betrayed the trust his family placed in him--and for what it may be worth to you--neither would I. You must understand that every other relationship I have had has been sullied by deception and betrayal--including my relationship with my husband and daughter," she said turning to Sydney, giving her a long look of regret. "The love I shared with Sydney's father was deeper and more abiding than any I have known, but it was based on lies. William Vaughn was the only one who actually knew the truth about me, about everything I had done, and in the end he forgave me--for all of it."  
  
"There are many types of love, Mr. Vaughn," she concluded, turning to him once more. "Do not condemn me for having loved your father."  
  
Vaughn found it impossible to hold Irina's gaze and looked down at the floor.  
  
Sydney cleared her throat.  
  
"You said you made two demands when you started working for the CIA: that your mother be extracted and that you be given access to your father's intel, and that the CIA agreed," she queried doggedly, in an attempt to distract her mother's attention and save Vaughn from further discomfort.  
  
"Your grandmother died of cancer in 1974," Irina answered, her eyes filled with sadness, "two year after I came to the States. I was not even aware that she was ill. The KGB never told me. It was actually the CIA who informed me of her death, and later I confirmed it through other sources. As for the intel my father provided, I was given low-level security clearance to examine a small fraction of it. I discovered something that the CIA wouldn't capitalize on until many years later: my father's connection to Rambaldi. There were a series of strange markings, no more than pencil indentations, on some of the drawings my father had provided. I recognized it as part of the code he and I used to communicate with when I was a child. I had always thought it was a game, something my father made up for me, but then I remembered a very dusty, very old, leather-bound book in my father's study which used the same symbols. Most of my father's books and papers were confiscated when he was arrested. I had always assumed they'd been destroyed, but now I wondered whether they were buried somewhere in the KGB archives. I was intrigued enough to copy down the code. I vowed to return to Moscow one day and discover the truth. I was convinced that my father knew more than he was sharing with either country, and I was right. Years later, I found the book in a forgotten corner of the KGB archives. It was the only extant copy of a treatise devoted to Rambaldi and his works. That's when my obsession with Rambaldi officially began. "  
  
"That's why you agreed to go back, when it came time for the KGB to extract you?" Sydney exclaimed. "You wanted to look for the book."  
  
"Yes," Irina said simply. "It was the only connection to my father I had left. However, it wasn't the only reason I went back to the Soviet Union. I loved you, Sydney, and I loved your father, but whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't see a mother or a wife; I saw a cold-blooded killer without a country, without a name. There were times I couldn't even recognize my own face. I left because I could no longer stand the lies, and the betrayal, and deceit."  
  
Irina's eyes glistened with tears, and she cleared her throat.  
  
"Everything I have done since then has been done to keep the world safe from the political machinations of the world's superpowers. Perhaps now, after you have heard my story, you understand why I trust the CIA as little as I did the KGB. It is not enough to keep the Rambaldi artifacts out of the hands of those who would use them for their own gain. They must be used to abolish political tyranny, and you can help me. You must help me! I need you both, far more than you realize, if I am to complete my father's dream of a world in which fear, pestilence, war and famine, political boundaries and oppression no longer exist."  
  
"Mom," Sydney said, her lips trembling, her voice no more than a whisper. "Look at the prophecy--look at it! That's not my face--it's yours! Rambaldi didn't predict that you would save the world; he prophesied that you would destroy it."  
  
"No," Irina said firmly. "You're mistaken. You've been deceived. I have studied Rambaldi for almost thirty years. I have poured over documents and amassed a collection of Rambaldi artifacts rivaled only by that of Arvin Sloane. I would know if that were the truth."  
  
"Mom--just look at!" Sydney pleaded, pointing to the prophecy.  
  
Irina looked, and her eyes widened, but she was not looking at the parchment on which her own likeness was drawn, but at the ring on her daughter's finger.  
  
"Sydney," she breathed. "That ring--Where did you get that ring?"  
  
Startled, Sydney drew back, instinctively balling her hand into a fist at her side. She looked towards Vaughn. Irina caught the glance, and her eyes widened further.  
  
"Listen to me very carefully. You are both in great danger. If Arvin Sloane discovers that you have the ring, you will never be safe, anywhere again. There is another prophecy--one you have no knowledge of. Rambaldi speaks of an Azure Knight and his Red Lady who balance the scales of dark and light. All my work has been based on this prophecy, but I have miscalculated-- grossly miscalculated--everything if you are indeed the possessor of Rambaldi's ring."  
  
"I don't understand," Sydney stated, frowning.  
  
But Irina was no longer paying attention to her daughter. She was gazing at Michael Vaughn.  
  
Approaching him, she reached up, almost as if she were going to touch his cheek. Vaughn flinched. Noting his reaction, Irina's hand fell and instead brushed his hand. A long gash in the fabric of Vaughn's sleeve from the struggle with Sark earlier revealed the tattoo of the Delorme family crest on his upper arm. Irina's gaze fixed on the avenging angel, inked on the azure background.  
  
"Yes," she breathed. "It all makes sense to me now."  
  
She noted the confusion on both Vaughn and Sydney's faces and her smile was bittersweet.  
  
"Everyone puts themselves at the center of their own narratives. We are the heroines of our own romances; the heroes of our own quests. No one relegates themselves to playing a bit part in someone else's story. I was guilty of a grand act of hubris. I believed I was the Red Lady and Jack Bristow was my Knight. How could I have known that the Red Lady would be our daughter and William Vaughn's son her Azure Knight?"  
  
As if in a daze, Irina turned to look at the document on the table. She picked up the parchment, feeling the weight of the paper and examining the ink closely. Her lips moved as she read the prophecy, and her eyes took on a haunted look. She traced the features of the woman depicted on the parchment, and finally laid the parchment once more on the table.  
  
"So, it is true," she said slowly. "All my work--thirty years of obsession-- has been devoted to bringing about what I most wanted to prevent."  
  
"You can still help us bring down Arvin Sloane," Sydney cried. "Help us bring him to justice. Come work for the CIA."  
  
"No," Irina stated adamantly. "I will never work for the CIA again. I will help you thwart Arvin Sloane, but it will be on my own terms."  
  
"I think not," said a laconic voice behind her, and there was a click of a pistol being cocked. "Since you're in the mood to confess, I think you should explain your connection to Arvin Sloane--Mother."  
  
Sark stood by the fireplace, the livid gash on his cheek illuminated by the flickering light of the fire, his gun trained first on Irina and then on Vaughn.  
  
"Drop the gun," Sydney ordered fiercely, aiming at Sark.  
  
"I suggest you drop yours, unless you are certain you can kill me before I kill either your Mr. Vaughn or our dear, duplicitous mother."  
  
With perspiration beading on her forehead, Sydney continued to train her gun on Sark, her internal struggle apparent on her face.  
  
"Julian," Irina interrupted, her voice breaking. "Don't do this."  
  
Sark blinked at the use of his first name, but made no further acknowledgement that he heard his mother's words.  
  
"Sydney, drop your gun," he repeated icily, renewing his grip on his handgun, "or I will shoot them both."  
  
Sydney slowly lowered her arms. She dropped the gun and stepped backwards, her hands raised.  
  
"Now give me the ring," he ordered. "Mr. Vaughn, no doubt, will be kind enough to provide you with another," he added wickedly.  
  
Sydney and Vaughn's anguished eyes met. Vaughn hesitated, and then almost imperceptibly nodded his head. Sydney's hands shook as she removed the ring from her finger.  
  
"Sydney, no," Irina pleaded, watching the silent conversation between Vaughn and Sydney play out. "You have no idea of its significance--of the power it will unleash in the wrong hands. Arvin Sloane must not have it!"  
  
"I won't ask you again, Sydney," Sark stated, spacing the words and pronouncing each one with precision. "Give me the ring."  
  
"Take it!" Syd said, through clenched teeth, holding it out to him.  
  
"Drop it on the floor and raise your hands, then step back and face the wall," Sark responded. "You, too, Mr. Vaughn," he warned, catching the other man's eye.  
  
Sydney dropped the ring on the hardwood floor, and it lay between them on the worn floorboards, the ruby in its gold setting sparkling in the half light of the cottage, the pearls on either side of the stone shining with an iridescent glow. She glared at Sark, then slowly turned to face the wall.  
  
Only Irina stood facing her son.  
  
"Julian," she repeated. "There is much you still don't understand--much I have had to conceal from you, as well. I beg you not to do this, not until you hear what I have to say."  
  
"You've had twenty-three years to explain," Sark stated coldly. "Turn around and face the wall."  
  
Only after she complied did Sark advance towards the ring.  
  
As he bent to pick it up, Sydney whirled around and caught him in the chest with a spinning roundhouse kick. He fought back fiercely, blocking the first punch she threw and then the next, but Sydney kept up her attack, refusing to back down or give in. They were evenly matched. Sark did not give up his weapon, but neither was he able to use it. They continued to struggle, until finally he blindsided her with his gun. Snatching up the ring, he sprang for the door, as a bullet whizzed past his head and lodged in the door frame.  
  
Irina and Vaughn had both gone for the gun Sydney had dropped, but Vaughn reached it first, taking the first clean shot he could get. Half way out the door, Sark returned fire, then disappeared into the night.  
  
Stopping only to check that the spray of bullets hadn't hit Sydney, Vaughn ran out the door. He could see Sark's figure silhouetted in the moonlight, running toward the cliff's edge, but a terrible, searing pain coming from what were now certainly broken ribs on his left side prevented him from pursuing Sark any further.  
  
Clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring his quarry in the ensuing darkness, and when the moon reemerged, Vaughn had no choice but to take aim from where he stood. His shot rang out into the night, and Sark stumbled, only to get up again, limping as he made the last few steps to the cliff's edge and disappeared over the side. Holding his ribs and gasping for breath, Vaughn made it to the side of the cliff in time to hear the sound of a motor boat disappearing into the distance.  
  
When he returned to the cottage, he found Sydney cradling her mother in her arms. She turned her head when she heard him approach, the swelling on the left side of her face a marked contrast to her complexion, bled of all color.  
  
The expression in her eyes confirmed what the sickening lurch of his stomach already told him.  
  
Irina was dead, killed by a bullet meant for him. 


	21. Reckoning

Giving Sydney time to mourn her mother privately, Vaughn stepped outside taking the SAT phone with him.  
  
He punched the code into the keypad, hoping this time it would work.  
  
"Base Camp, this is Boy Scout requesting immediate extraction. Do you read me, Base Camp?"  
  
There was silence on the other end.  
  
"Base Camp, do you read me?" Vaughn repeated, his voice edged with frustration.  
  
"Boy Scout, this is Base Camp," stated a CIA operator over the static. "An extraction team has been alerted. ETA 10 minutes. We are rerouting you to an encrypted frequency so that you can speak freely. Stand by." There was a pause, and then the CIA operator returned. "Okay, connection secured. Go ahead, Agent Vaughn."  
  
"Get me Jack Bristow!" Vaughn ordered.  
  
"Vaughn," Jack stated, his voice strained. "What the hell happened?"  
  
"Irina is dead," Vaughn answered flatly, his voice sounding hollow and defeated even to his own ears. "Sark shot her and escaped with a Rambaldi artifact. We think he is working with Sloane and may have been working with him for some time. We need to assume that Sydney's cover has been blown-- yours, too. Dixon should be alerted, as well."  
  
There was long pause before Jack responded, and when he did, his voice sounded distant.  
  
"Derevko's dead?"  
  
Vaughn closed his eyes and swallowed. "Yes."  
  
"Are either you or Sydney injured?" Jack inquired sharply, his voice regaining its strength.  
  
Vaughn took a deep breath. "We're okay, but I need you to send a team to my apartment. Agent Weiss--"  
  
"Dixon and I found Agent Weiss in your apartment shortly after Sark shot him," Jack interrupted. "He came out of surgery a few hours ago. He is weak, but the doctors are confident that he will make a full recovery."  
  
Vaughn exhaled audibly. "Thank God."  
  
"Is it your belief that Sark will deliver the prism to Sloane?" Jack asked impatiently, bringing the younger agent's attention back to the matter at hand.  
  
"Not the prism," Vaughn answered, the sick feeling at the pit of his stomach returning. "A ring Irina saw Sydney wearing and identified as having once belonged to Rambaldi."  
  
"Sydney hasn't worn a ring since she removed Daniel Hecht's engagement ring," Jack stated bluntly.  
  
Vaughn lifted his eyes to the night sky. The constellations were bright against the inky expanse. He had imagined many different variations of this conversation with Jack--just not this one.  
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
"The ring belonged to me," he explained tersely. "It's been in my family for generations. I was unaware of the Rambaldi connection when I gave it to Sydney."  
  
"YOU gave Sydney the ring."  
  
"Yes."  
  
There was silence on both ends of the phone as Jack processed this information and all that it implied.  
  
"I see," he said quietly.  
  
Vaughn had been prepared for the older man's steely anger, but the resignation and regret he heard in Jack's voice was far worse.  
  
A stony silence ensued until Jack resumed the conversation, his voice brusque and cold.  
  
"We're sending a chopper that will take you to the mainland," he stated curtly, as if none of the previous conversation had occurred. "From there, a plane will take you back to LA. I'll see you at headquarters."  
  
He broke off the connection without waiting for the younger agent's acknowledgment.  
  
Vaughn stared at the SAT phone for several seconds and then stood with the palm of his hand braced against the wall, his head bent.  
  
When he went back inside he found Sydney still kneeling beside her mother's body.  
  
"Syd, we need to go," he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Your father is sending a helicopter. It will be here soon."  
  
She turned, and the look of tortured despair in her eyes tore at his heart. He opened his arms, and she lurched to her feet and stumbled into his arms.  
  
Cradling Sydney's head against his shoulder, he buried his face in her hair and pressed her close despite the searing pain in his ribs. Unbidden, the image arose before his mind's eye of his father enfolding Irina in his comforting embrace only minutes before being killed by a CIA sniper.  
  
Had his father felt the same rush of tenderness for Irina that he himself had felt for Sydney almost from the beginning? Did he too undergo the torture of attempting to explain the finer points of a complex counter mission to his asset while fighting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her? And if he had, how could his son possibly reconcile this image with the devoted father and loving husband he had known as a child?  
  
"There are many types of love, Mr. Vaughn," Irina had reminded him, and perhaps that was so, but at this point he found it impossible to analyze the complexities of Irina's relationship with his father.  
  
Too much had happened too fast, and stress and fatigue had made him lose any real grasp he had on the passage of time. Was it really only this morning that he had woken up with Sydney naked and warm at his side, while the rain pattered against the window and the convent bells rang in the distance?  
  
From outside came the whir of a helicopter drawing closer and landing on the grassy knoll behind the cottage. Two men dressed in SWAT gear knocked on the door of the cottage, which still stood ajar.  
  
"Agent Vaughn? Agent Bristow? We need you to gather up your belongings and get into the chopper. We'll take care of the body," one of the agents stated.  
  
Vaughn nodded. He let go of Sydney and began moving around the room, refusing to think, simply moving from one task to another. After he rolled up the Rambaldi documents and slipped the prism into his pocket, he gathered up their clothes and personal items, stuffing everything into his dufflebag, and finally turned to see if Sydney was ready.  
  
She had not moved from the spot where he had left her, and was watching with deadened eyes as the agents zipped up the black bag which held her mother's body.  
  
Gently, he drew her away from the sight and maneuvered her out the door and toward the direction of the helicopter, then helped her in. A few minutes later the agents carried Irina's body to the chopper and boarded themselves. Vaughn watched as his grandmother's cottage receded from view, the long grass which surrounded it bent in concentric rings as the helicopter lifted off and turned to head toward the mainland.  
  
He closed his eyes, and images of Irina's blood pooling on the burnished floorboards and the bullet lodged in the splintered door frame rose up before him. He winced and tried to swallow the lump that formed in his throat.  
  
The childhood home that had always been a haven for him was haven no more.  
  
He put an arm around Sydney's shoulders, and she slumped against him. They did not talk at all on the short flight to the mainland, or en route to the safe house in Paris where they were debriefed and Vaughn's ribs were examined and re-bandaged. Agents then escorted them to an airstrip where they boarded a military transport plane, very similar to the one Jack had commandeered to get them out of Taipei. It was a nine hour trip back to LA.  
  
Vaughn felt as if the inside of his eyelids had been rubbed with sandpaper, but as tired as he was, sleep would not come. Sydney, still in a state of shock, eventually succumbed to her exhaustion. He waited until she nodded off, and then got up and wrapped a rough red flannel blanket around her shoulders.  
  
He paced the length of the plane, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. They had come full circle--and what had changed? Everything and nothing.  
  
He had thought he had been prepared for the confrontation with Irina, but he had been wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for looking into the enigmatic dark brown eyes of Sydney's mother, to see them shift from coolly calculating to anguished and tender and back again as she told them her story and the role his father had played in it. Now she was dead, and all the intel she might have provided them had died with her--including the location and contents of the second prophecy.  
  
Had Irina's story simply been a ploy to gain their loyalty, or was the CIA really deceiving them? Could she really be the "Savant" mentioned in his father's diaries? He was in no position to sort the truth from the lies. He simply knew that he had failed Sydney. He'd convinced both Jack and Devlin that she would be safe on Île Mariette, all so that he could pursue his own notion of a romantic getaway. Jean-Luc Brochet had died as a result, so had Irina Derevko, and if Jack and Dixon had not gotten to the apartment in time, Weiss would have been a victim of his heedlessness as well.  
  
He sat down on a crate and rubbed his eyes with his fists. White squares of light flashed across the dark screen of his retina, and he saw the choices he had made since Taipei spread out like the grid of a chessboard--every wrong move apparent.  
  
If only he'd waited to give Sydney the ring...  
  
If only he'd searched Sark for weapons, or had gotten a better shot...  
  
If only he and Irina hadn't struggled for the gun...  
  
Then he shivered, icy chills running up and down his spine.  
  
The bullet which had struck Irina could just as easily have hit him, and it would have been his body instead of Irina's that Syd found when she regained consciousness.  
  
Was it fate? Chance? Some sort of cosmic quid pro quo? His life in exchange for his father's? Irina's for his own?  
  
Irina believed that he and Sydney were the ones Rambaldi spoke of in the second prophecy. What if all the choices he was chastising himself for had been fated? Would it make him feel any better to know that he and Sydney were merely pawns being manipulated in some cosmic game of chess?  
  
"Don't--"he heard Sydney say firmly.  
  
Startled, he opened his eyes to see her standing before him.  
  
He shook his head to clear it, and watched as she sat down on the crate opposite him.  
  
He thought he'd never seen Sydney look so exhausted. Her face was pale and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. She attempted a small smile, and giving her a weary smile in return, he reached out and took her hands in his.  
  
They were ice-cold. He began rubbing them, his thumbs passing over her fingers, instinctively looking for something even his sluggish brain should know was no longer there--his grandmother's ring--the ring that was supposed to signify their future.  
  
He thought about his grandfather taking the ring--Rambaldi's ring, a ring with untold, possibly apocalyptic powers--to a local jeweler to have it inscribed with a tribute to his young bride, and the full force of what had transpired swept over him.  
  
"Syd--"he said in a low voice as his eyes lifted to meet hers. "I'm sorry-- so sorry. I never meant it to be like this--"  
  
"Vaughn, don't--"she said more softly this time, reaching out to caress his cheek, rubbing her thumb over the stubble and looking into his haggard green eyes.  
  
"If you were to ask me what I think about Rambaldi, or the possibility of a second prophecy, or whether I think we met by fate or chance, I don't know what to think. But none of that changes what I am about to say," She looked down, took a long breath, and their eyes met once more. "Je t'aime," she said, tearing up, her voice shaking now. "A ma vie de coeur entire."  
  
She kissed him, and he pulled her to him, crushing her fiercely to his chest.  
  
The plane touched down hours later in smog-filled LA. They disembarked just as two agents where lifting the black bag carrying Irina's body out of the cargo hold and transferring it to a gray unmarked van.  
  
"Stop! Where are you taking the body?" Sydney cried, stepping between the men and the open doors of the van.  
  
"Forensics," the shorter of the two men answered, "for autopsy. After that, they'll release the body and any personal belongings to the next of kin."  
  
"I am the next of kin!" Sydney protested indignantly.  
  
"Then you'll be hearing from the director shortly," the other agent answered curtly, clearly impatient to be off. "Please step aside."  
  
Vaughn put a hand on Sydney's elbow, but she shook it off angrily, never taking her eyes off the two agents handling the bag which contained Irina's body.  
  
Her eyes were steely. "I want to ride in the van--with my moth--with the body."  
  
"I am sorry, that's against protocol," the taller agent stated irritably, giving Vaughn a hard look.  
  
Vaughn grimaced and pulled Sydney aside.  
  
"Syd. You're going about this the wrong way," he whispered. "We can get information through other channels. Let it go."  
  
"No!" Sydney whispered back hotly. "I want to see where they're taking her. You know as well as I do they'll classify her death Omega-17. This may be the last time I see her."  
  
Vaughn glanced at the agents, then at Sydney, and sighed. "Who ordered this autopsy?" he asked, raising his voice and turning to the other agents. "This woman died of a gun shot wound to the chest. This has been verified by our own agents in Paris."  
  
"You'll have to take that up with the director. Now step aside."  
  
The agent scowled at Sydney, and Sydney glared back for several seconds, then stepped aside and abruptly stalked off. Vaughn was forced to jog to catch up to her.  
  
"I know who ordered the autopsy," Sydney seethed, as he reached her side, "and it wasn't Devlin. The person we need to take this up with is my father." 


	22. Aftermath Part 1

Jack Bristow was scanning the transcript of the debrief Vaughn and Sydney had given in Paris when his daughter stalked into the warehouse. Jack watched his daughter approach, his eyes flicking momentarily to Vaughn, who entered the warehouse behind her, saying nothing but looking troubled, his brow deeply furrowed.  
  
"How could you let them take her body?" Sydney demanded, going to straight to her father, her voice trembling with anger. "How could you deny my mother the simple decency of a funeral?"  
  
"She had one--twenty-two years ago," her father stated coldly. "Perhaps you remember it. You were there."  
  
He put down the manila folder and turned towards her. "The NSA took immediate possession of Derevko's body in order to ascertain whether she possessed the platelet levels, DNA sequence, and enlarged heart Rambaldi foretold. Devlin and I simply acquiesced to their demands."  
  
Sydney's eyes narrowed. "Since when have you acquiesced to anything the NSA has requested?" she asked hotly.  
  
"You may think her a martyr, but it is clear from your report that she is as adept at emotional and psychological manipulation as she ever was," Jack said, his voice low and guttural with suppressed fury. "You should NOT have deviated from the mission. You put yourself and others at grave risk."  
  
"Risk? Risk?" Sydney's eyes widened, and her face paled in fury. "Who are you to talk of risk? You set me up to be a triple agent and Vaughn to take Haladki's place as a mole! You were the one who put us at risk!"  
  
Jack's face hardened. "Shall we review the sequence of events? While you were sequestered on Île Mariette, Sark shot and almost killed Agent Weiss for refusing to become the new CIA mole. He financed Francie's restaurant, which, at the very least, makes her acutely vulnerable to blackmail and extortion. The only way to secure the situation--a situation, I might add, forced on us by your mother--was to make you a triple."  
  
He fixed his daughter's face with a stare that cut like a surgical laser and concluded, "An option your ill-considered actions have eliminated, making these strategic and personal sacrifices futile."  
  
"Jack, that's enough," Vaughn interjected firmly, stepping between them.  
  
Jack scowled at him, but a stab of remorse pierced him as he saw Sydney's face crumple and her eyes fill with tears.  
  
"Sark threatened Francie?" she whispered, her pale face turning ashen.  
  
"No," he relented, "but she is now a pawn to be used as he wishes--to control you."  
  
"We have to get her into witness protection. If we bring Francie in, perhaps Will will agree to go, too. We can place them together--" Sydney shot back, her mind racing.  
  
"I already have a team staked out at your apartment, but, frankly, Francie's safety is not our major concern at the moment," Jack stated. "If Sark is indeed working with Arvin Sloane, Sloane already knows that we are both double agents, and our entire operation to take down SD-6 is in peril."  
  
Jack's face contorted when he mentioned Sark. He held onto the initial sibilant and came down hard on the fricative as if the name left an acrid taste in his mouth. The bile did indeed rise in his throat as he thought of Irina Derevko's unholy union with Arvin Sloane. Demon begetting demon. It explained a great deal.  
  
Sydney glanced at her father and then at Vaughn. She licked her lips. It was now or never.  
  
"I know how to bring down Sloane and the Alliance--how to destroy every single SD cell--all of it," she stated, "but we can't do it without Dixon's help."  
  
Taking a deep breath, she continued on, despite the looks of utter astonishment on the faces of both men.  
  
"Mom gave me a series of codes before she died: codes that unlock a database disclosing the identity and location of every SD-6 agent and Alliance member. If we give the codes to Dixon, he can access the files and upload them to the CIA server."  
  
Both men were stunned, but the revelation winded Jack like a blow to the solar plexus. Vaughn was the first to recover from the shock.  
  
"She spoke to you before she died? What did she say? Did she discuss the second prophecy?" he asked.  
  
"Start from the beginning," Jack interrupted impatiently. "Tell us exactly what Derevko said."  
  
Sydney wiped away the tears. "It happened so quickly..." she choked out. "When I came to, I thought I was alone in the cottage." She gulped. "I sat up and looked around. She was propped against the bed..."  
  
Sydney saw her mother's form in the moonlight, her white blouse spotted with ever-darkening rosettes of blood.  
  
She put her hand to her mouth in horror, a sob escaping her throat. "Mom?"  
  
"Sydney," Irina said softly.  
  
"You're bleeding!" Sydney cried.  
  
Still unsteady from her blow, she scrambled across the floor on all fours to her mother's side. The fabric around the wounds was singed and perforated, revealing torn and mutilated flesh in her left breast and abdomen. Blood seeped out of the wounds, and a dark pool was forming on the floor, its surface glistening in the moonlight as Irina's blood soaked into the cracks of the burnished floorboards. Snatching the sheet from the bed, Sydney ripped it down the middle, using a piece to staunch the flow.  
  
"Vaughn and I struggled for the gun. Julian fired, and I turned my body to shield Vaughn." Irina said, swallowing with difficulty. "He did not realize I was hit. He checked on you, then went after Julian."  
  
Willing herself to remain calm, while fighting down the panic that threatened to engulf her, Sydney rifled through Vaughn's dufflebag until she found the SAT phone.  
  
"I'll get them to send a chopper from the mainland...we'll take you to the nearest hospital," she said, her trembling fingers frantically punching the keypad. But her fingers were slippery with blood and none of the combinations she tried were working. It was Aconcagua all over again.  
  
"Sweetheart, put down the phone," her mother murmured, closing her eyes. "I won't make it to the mainland."  
  
Tiny droplets of perspiration were beginning to form on her forehead. Sydney gently wiped them away with the palm of her quivering hand and gazed into her mother's eyes.  
  
"Mom--"the name came out in a low moan, and she could feel her face contort with the grief she could no longer hold back.  
  
"Sydney, you must listen to me," her mother said, her roughcast voice urgent. "If Julian gives Sloane the ring, he will have everything he needs to construct "Il Dire."  
  
"'The Telling?' " Sydney asked, translating mechanically.  
  
Nodding faintly, Irina continued, "Rambaldi's crowning achievement--a time machine, perhaps; no one is quite certain what it is or how it works, only that it is more dangerous than any weapon ever created."  
  
Her breathing came in labored gasps. When she resumed, her voice had lost much of its strength. "I cannot prevent Arvin Sloane from possessing Il Dire, but you can prevent him from using it."  
  
Sydney's full attention was fixed on Irina's pale but determined face, memorizing every detail as faithfully as a digital camera.  
  
"There is a computer within SD-6 that can access the Alliance mainframe when the right codes are in place," Irina explained. "I obtained them so that we could bring down SD-6--together. The first code is hardwired into the device each member of the Alliance has implanted upon his induction. The second is the code designated for SD-6. The third is Sloane's personal code. Ready?"  
  
Sydney brushed away her tears, staining her cheeks with livid streaks of Irina's blood and nodded.  
  
Irina coughed, and her voice grew hoarse. "899-67057-47-75076-998 is the first, 3111-3452-47-2543-1113, the second, 4387-474-7843, the third." Nearly every number was punctuated by a cough, or sharp intake of breath.  
  
Sydney repeated the numbers back to her mother, and some portion of her brain automatically recorded the fact that there were 47 digits in all, each arranged in the form of a palindrome.  
  
"The database will give you the identity and whereabouts of every Alliance member," Irina continued, choking out the words. "Once you destroy the Alliance, you will cut off Sloane's access to the resources he needs to operate the machine. Do what I could not. Use Rambaldi's invention for good, not ill. Look beyond selfish national interest. Remember your grandfather. Become a citizen--of the world."  
  
Irina's eyes lost their focus. She was no longer looking at Sydney, but at some point in the middle distance.  
  
"Mom?!" Sydney whimpered, caressing her cheek.  
  
"I had hoped my work would one day reunite me with you and your father." Irina said, her voice now so weak that Sydney had to bend down to hear her. "Tell him--you must tell him--love--"  
  
Tears streamed down Sydney's cheeks as she cradled her mother's head in her arms. Her voice was thin and as plaintive as the voice of a small, bereft child.  
  
"Mom?!"  
  
Irina smiled faintly, and her heavy-lidded eyes closed. Her words came out almost in the form of a sigh.  
  
"Good luck, Sweetheart--moya zhizn', moya serdtza."  
  
Her hand loosened its grip on her daughter's arm, falling to the floor. Her body grew limp, and her head fell against Sydney's shoulder.  
  
Tenderly, Sydney brushed the hair away from her mother's cheek and tucked it behind her ear. Clasping Irina to her chest, she rocked back and forth soundlessly, as huge, heaving sobs racked her body.  
  
She was still holding her when Vaughn returned, her cheek pressed to her mother's blood-matted hair.  
  
Jack Bristow was profoundly shaken by his daughter's words. He came back, as if from a reverie, to find Sydney and Vaughn in fervent discussion.  
  
"Once we obtain authorization from Devlin, we can contact Dixon and give him the codes," Sydney was saying urgently. "We can move--perhaps in a matter of hours--against each and every one of the SD cells and dismantle them."  
  
"The strike force to carry out such a mission is more than the CIA could put together in just a few hours," Vaughn said slowly, "but, if we're going to act, we must act quickly."  
  
Jack interrupted, his voice sharp and decisive, betraying only the slightest hint of a tremor. "If it is intel at all, it is highly suspect considering the source. Derevko cannot to be trusted."  
  
Sydney and Vaughn both turned to him.  
  
"Jack, we can't just ignore--"  
  
"Dad, think about---"  
  
"Irina Derevko was an enemy of the United States. No matter which side she purported to work for, you can be assured that she was pursuing her own agenda."  
  
"Her agenda is the same as ours: to take down Sloane and prevent his use of Il Dire!" Sydney cried, losing patience. "If you're too blind to see that, perhaps Devlin will."  
  
"Sydney!" Jack shouted.  
  
But his daughter was half way out of the warehouse. The wire door to the cage slammed against the wall, the metal clip ricocheting against it with a sonorous clang, and Sydney was gone. 


	23. Aftermath Part 2

Vaughn looked appraisingly at Jack and turned to go after Sydney, but Jack stopped him, placing a hand on his arm.  
  
"You know as well as I do that Devlin will not authorize a strike of such proportions without further proof that Derevko's intel can be trusted," he said evenly. "Sydney believes her mother has only her best interests at heart. I need to know right now, Agent Vaughn, where you stand."  
  
Vaughn swallowed, discomfited by the older man's scrutiny. To finally be free of the Alliance, to defeat Arvin Sloane, to be allowed to share a life with Sydney--it was everything they had so ardently desired. And yet, remembering the enigmatic and coolly calculating expression in Irina's eyes, he was filled with doubt. Could he really stake their lives simply to test whether Irina Derevko's last words could be trusted?  
  
He felt the heat rise to his face, and the skin over his angled cheekbones flushed. "I can't answer that."  
  
"Try," Jack suggested laconically.  
  
Vaughn looked down at the scuffed pavement and then up at Jack. "Irina could have come to the United States with the intention of turning herself in to the CIA and becoming a double agent, as she described," he stated quietly. "Or, perhaps it was the KGB plan all along for her to infiltrate the CIA and pose as a double agent, which would effectively make her a triple. After all, how would the CIA know?"  
  
"And?" he urged.  
  
"If the idea was to prevent the assassination of key political figures by the KGB, Irina could have made up a plot to kill a particular target, even when there was no operation planned, and she would look like a hero when the supposed assassination attempt did not succeed--meanwhile taking care of her true objective of eliminating the CIA agents best positioned to gather intel about other KGB operations."  
  
There was a glint of approval in Jack's eyes. "You see now, Mr. Vaughn, why I can't allow Sydney to trust Irina Derevko or the information she has provided."  
  
Vaughn shook his head. "Yes, but the fact that the KGB made her a triple agent doesn't eliminate the possibility that she was playing both countries off each other for her own mysterious ends. In the end, if Sydney IS right and her mother's information can bring down SD-6--that's an opportunity we can't afford to lose."  
  
"Then you must do as you see fit," Jack stated dismissively, moving towards the door.  
  
Now it was Vaughn's turn to forestall Jack's exit. He moved in front of the other man, his jaw set in determination.  
  
"Did you know that Irina Derevko was the Savant and that my father was her handler?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you didn't think that this was something that I should know?" Vaughn shot back incredulously.  
  
"The revelation that Irina was involved in your father's death was upsetting enough. We did not want to put further strain on your--working-- relationship with Sydney."  
  
"So you withheld the truth? What's it with you and the truth, Jack?" Vaughn asked mockingly. "Is it that you're above the truth? Beyond it? Or just plain afraid of it?  
  
"This conversation is ended."  
  
"No it isn't. While we are on the subject of Sydney's best interests, what was her involvement with Project Christmas?" Vaughn asked, barely able to contain his anger and disgust.  
  
Jack eyed him sharply. "How do you know about Sydney's involvement in Project Christmas?"  
  
Vaughn's eyes flashed. "I didn't know. I only suspected, but you couldn't resist, could you, Jack?"  
  
The two men locked gazes. Jack's eyes were steely and cold, but Vaughn would not back down. Not this time.  
  
"It won't be long before Sydney realizes the truth herself. How can you expect either of us to trust you, when you've been far from honest with us?" he seethed.  
  
"Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Mr. Vaughn," Jack said curtly. "I accept you love my daughter, but that does not give you the right to question me or my actions. Everything I have done has been done to protect Sydney--including involving her in Project Christmas. You, of all people, should understand this."  
  
"I understand that you committed Sydney to a life of espionage, before she was able to recognize the cost!"  
  
"Sydney was a committed to this life simply by fact of being Irina Derevko's daughter!" Jack roared in a crescendo of emotion.  
  
Vaughn closed the gap between them. "When Sydney came to work for the CIA, I told her we were the good guys. I promised her that together we'd bring down the Alliance. But now I find I can hardly distinguish between the Alliance and the US government. Murders covered up for political gain. Children brainwashed to supply the CIA with super agents. I am beginning to wonder if I've been duped by the very people I trusted most--just like your daughter."  
  
"What do you wish me to do?" Jack asked, his voice level.  
  
He looked at Vaughn--the striking image of his father. William Vaughn had died an ardent idealist, done in by political realists. At the moment, his son seemed hell-bent on sharing the same fate.  
  
"I want you to help me reopen my father's case," Vaughn stated firmly.  
  
"And I am telling you now is not the time," Jack warned. "If you pursue this any further, you will be putting both yourself and Sydney in grave danger. It would be more than foolish to do anything at this juncture to jeopardize the CIA's support and protection when both Sark and Arvin Sloane will stop at nothing to kill you."  
  
Vaughn fixed him with a mutinous glare. "So are you saying I should just sit on the information that the CIA knowingly traded the lives of 12 of its officers for faulty KGB intel and that they killed my father when he threatened to reveal it?" he said in a harsh whisper.  
  
"What I am saying, Agent Vaughn," Jack replied, his words clipped, "is that neither you nor Sydney are in a position of power right now. You cannot afford to fight wars on both fronts simultaneously. Defeat Arvin Sloane and then you can investigate the CIA's involvement in your father's death."  
  
"So you acknowledge there is a connection?" Vaughn asserted.  
  
"I started to suspect something when I was taking part in the investigation into your father's death," Jack began, his voice strained. "The details I uncovered did not coincide with the official report. When I read over the files describing your father's meetings with the Savant, certain dates and locations sounded familiar." Pausing to gather his thoughts, he continued, "there were correspondences--academic conferences--lectures Laura attended-- family vacations--" Looking with shame and self-recrimination into the young man's eyes, he continued "I never confronted her. It seemed-- preposterous--the delusions of a paranoid mind. Still, I wondered. I continued to investigate the deaths of the 12 agents, and it grew increasingly apparent to me that the CIA was somehow complicit in the murders. However, it was not until after Laura's--death that I realized the unassailability of the connection."  
  
"That's why the FBI was investigating you," Vaughn rejoined. "Just like my father, you threatened to reveal what you knew, so they charged you with treason. You had been married to a KGB agent, after all, so you were easy to frame. But the CIA reinstated you later, with a full pardon. Why?"  
  
"They were aware of my ties to Arvin Sloane, to SD-6," Jack explained tersely. "In return for my--freedom, I became a double agent."  
  
"But Sloane must have realized at some point that your loyalties were divided. That's why he recruited Sydney," Vaughn replied, no longer waiting for Jack's confirmation. "To keep the scales tipped in his favor. You couldn't bring down SD-6 without implicating Sydney, so you gave the CIA just enough information to keep them satisfied, but not enough to inflict serious damage to SD-6 or the Alliance."  
  
Vaughn marveled at the gamesmanship, all around. Jack had played a cool game, evading check time and time again, but his success did not come without cost. He had protected his daughter, but his talents had helped the Alliance grow more and more powerful, with cells cropping up around the globe. Vaughn thought of the many-headed hydra depicted on the chart he first showed Sydney. It was ironic enough that the very thing that had brought them together constantly threatened their future happiness. It was even more ironic that Sydney had sworn to bring down the organization her father had aided and abetted in order to deliver her from harm.  
  
There was only one question left, and Vaughn knew he must ask it.  
  
"Sloane grew disaffected with the CIA and became one of the original Alliance members. Why did you keep up your ties with Sloane? What convinced you to join SD-6?"  
  
"After Laur--after Irina left, for a time, my mind was--clouded," Jack answered, after a lengthy pause in which he weighed the cost of what he was about to say with what might be gained in the process. "I lost my faith in many things I once believed in. I have done many things I am not proud of, some things that I--regret."  
  
His gaze alighted once more on Vaughn.  
  
"This is the sign of sore loss that I have suffered there....this is the badge of false faith that I have found there..." he quoted in French.  
  
"And I must bear it on my body till I breathe my last. For one may keep a deed dark, but undo it no whit, For where a fault is made fast, it is fixed evermore," Vaughn finished softly.  
  
It was Gawain's lament after being tricked by the Green Knight's wife and forced to recognize the limits of even his good virtue. Vaughn thought of a young, idealistic Jack Bristow betrayed by his wife, deceived by his country, coming once again within the orbit of Arvin Sloane's influence.  
  
"Yes." Jack affirmed, seeing a flicker of compassion he would not normally tolerate in the younger man's gaze. "I think you understand. The question is, Mr. Vaughn, if you are truly the Azure Knight Rambaldi spoke of, can you do what must be done to protect Sydney and not lose your soul or your life in the process?"  
  
He reached out stiffly and put a rather awkward hand on Vaughn's shoulder, and then exited through the same chain-link gate his daughter had stormed out of minutes before, leaving Vaughn alone in the darkened warehouse, gazing mutely after him. 


	24. Recollections

Jack walked quickly away from the storage facility, towards his Towne Car, still shaken by the encounter with Vaughn and Sydney. As always, he approached the door with caution, alert to signs of intrusion or meddling. There were none. He opened the door and sank into the driver's seat. He looked at the clock, 11:59, 27 minutes since he had left the car. He checked the onboard message system. No activity. He punched an address into the GPS, a route appeared instantly. It was only then that he allowed the explosive scene on Île Mariette to replay in his mind, with the strains of Irina's last words ringing in his ears.  
  
He could not quite believe that Irina had given her daughter the computer codes that were the key to locating and destroying all of the Alliance cells, nor could he completely discredit it. Such a database existed within SD-6. He had been privileged with at least that much information as a high- ranking officer in SD-6. What would Irina's endgame possibly be in this scenario? Was she actually trying to bring down the Alliance as she had told her daughter?  
  
He put his head on the steering wheel, sickened by a deluge of memories. Theirs had been a marriage of companionable silence, subtle glances, and enigmatic smiles. He'd thought that words were not needed between them. They spoke in a coded language of literary allusions from a half a dozen languages. He thought they shared this secret language, but that had all been a carefully constructed illusion. They hadn't spoken the same language at all.  
  
He closed his eyes. He could see her coming down the stone steps of the Swedish embassy on M Street, moving with a dancer's grace, dressed in a vermillion red sun dress, carrying a champagne flute in each hand. Jack kept his eyes on Kharkov, a Russian diplomat said to be a rising star of the KGB, amused that majority of the other young men at the party quickly positioned themselves to get the very best view of her descent. He glanced back to see the show and realized with a tinge of horror that she was walking towards him, her eyes never leaving his face.  
  
"Come, gaze with me upon this dome of many coloured glass and see his mother's pride, his father's joy, unto whom duty whispers low: 'thou must!' and who replies 'I can!' " she recited while still a few feet away in a voice which cut through the idle chatter flowing around them. Her dark eyes were full of wry humor seeming to invite his admiring gaze.  
  
"--yon clean upstanding well dressed boy that with his peers full oft hath quaffed the wine of life and found it sweet--"she continued, handing him one of the flutes. "A tear within his stern blue eye, upon his firm white lips a smile, one thought alone: to do or die for God for country and for Yale," she mocked.  
  
"Or, in my case, Harvard," Jack interjected.  
  
"No matter. 'Above his blond determined head, the sacred flag of truth unfurled in the bright heyday of his youth the upper class American, unsullied stands before the world," she continued, her eyes half closed, raising her glass, as if in salute.  
  
She took a step closer, and Jack could smell her perfume, a heady scent of bergamot, lemon, and patchouli accented with vanilla, sandalwood and musk, which he would later come to know as Shalimar, her signature fragrance.  
  
"With manly heart and conscience free," she whispered, leaning in still closer until her mouth touched his ear, "upon the front steps of her home by the high-minded, pure young girl--much kissed."  
  
She drew back slowly, clearly enjoying the effect.  
  
"e.e. cummings," she explained, answering the question, which had not yet even remotely crossed his mind.  
  
Finally, recovering his composure, Jack quirked his eyebrows and inclined his head, as if making a slight bow. "Droll and ironic look at blind patriotism and self-satisfaction, but why direct it at me?"  
  
"Looking at you made me think the lines might not be as satirical as they seem," she said, a smile playing on her lips.  
  
"I take it that you are not a student of politics?"  
  
"Call me a student of human nature."  
  
"Does it take a particular form?"  
  
"American literature,"Laura said. "I am finishing up my master's. And you?"  
  
"State department," he replied blandly.  
  
"That seems to be the standard answer this evening," Laura replied. "You haven't touched your wine."  
  
"I don't drink," Jack said, and when she looked at him inquiringly, he added, "I never have."  
  
"A boy scout and an ascetic," Laura observed. "I'll have to revise the previous lines about quaffing life. I suggest you at least taste it. I think you'll find it sweet."  
  
Jack raised his glass to her and, reeling from the effects of something more heady than champagne, drank it to the dregs.  
  
A few minutes later his steps echoed down the long, dimly lit corridor of the NSA sub-basement as he approached the guard standing beside the security door. Not wasting words on pleasantries, he showed the guard his security clearance. The guard gave a curt nod and invited him to place his palm on the security sensor. The metallic doors slid apart with a barely audible hiss, and Jack entered the cold blue steel lab in which Irina Derevko was being autopsied.  
  
The pungent scent of ammonia made his nostrils flare. His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the lab equipment, the metal gurneys, and the sterilized lab instruments. The single living occupant in the room, a middle-aged man of slight build and pale complexion with a thatch of thick black hair on his head that stuck up like the bristles, was peering into a microscope. Noticing Jack, he straightened up, replaced the wire-rimmed glasses that habitually perched on his nose, and crossed the room to greet him, his hand outstretched.  
  
"Agent Bristow," he said quickly. "My name is Frank Legrare. The deputy director said you'd be coming for the results. I needn't tell you that the tests required for this sort of identification are both complex and time consuming, and frankly, often inconclusive, but I believe you'll be very pleased with the results. There is no doubt that the woman described in Rambaldi's prophecy is Irina Derevko. Please, if you'll just step this way," Legrare said motioning to a series of microscopes against the wall.  
  
"Rambaldi's manuscript declared that the woman in the prophecy would have three distinguishing characteristics--"Dr. Legrare continued, nervousness giving way to excitement at his discoveries.  
  
"Increased number of platelets, an enlarged heart, and certain DNA markers, yes, I know," Jack replied. "Go on."  
  
"If you look at Slide A, you'll see the typical number of platelets found in a healthy woman of this age. Now look at Slide B. See the difference? Increased platelet levels usually means the body is fighting a disease, but from what we can tell, these platelet levels, although abnormally high for the general population, were normal for the individual in question, suggesting increased ability to fight off infection and heal minor injuries."  
  
Jack glanced at the slides evincing no surprise.  
  
"Now, if you come over here to the computer screen, you'll see a model of Derevko's DNA." Dr. Legrare clicked the mouse, illuminating a host of different points along the entwined helix. "The possibility of someone from the general population having two or three of these markers is quite high, considering that all humans share more than 99.9% of their DNA. The probability of having all forty-seven is well-nigh impossible. Derevko's DNA matched all of Rambaldi's specification to a T. However, we aren't even close to mapping out what kind of impact each of these markers might have on the physical, intellectual and emotional capacities of a specific individual. If Rambaldi knew, he was centuries ahead of our genetic research."  
  
He glanced at Jack, almost shyly, eager to share his enthusiasm with someone, but hesitant should he be rebuffed. "The opportunity to use the most advanced technologies at our disposal to probe into the mind of a savant, such as Rambaldi, to understand genetics in the way he perceived it over five centuries ago--well, for a man, like myself, it is almost--dare I say?--a holy, perhaps even a sacramental, endeavor."  
  
Jack nodded gravely and followed Legrare through another set of metallic doors into an adjoining room and ignoring the gurney covered by a green sheet which lay to his left, he walked quickly toward a scale suspended from the ceiling. He reached into the metal bowl and removed something with his gloved hands.  
  
"This is Derevko's heart," Legrare said, holding it up for Jack to inspect. "Nearly one-and-a-half-times the size of a normal heart for a women of this age and weight. Notice the striations on the outer walls," he said pointing with a latex –covered finger to the right ventricle, "as you can see—Agent Bristow, are you alright?"  
  
Jack swayed on his feet, his gorge rising. He staggered over to one of the shiny metallic basins and braced himself as wave upon wave of nausea crested over him. He broke out in a sweat and stood shaking willing the attack to pass.  
  
Dr. Legrare hovered over him, wringing his hands. "Terribly sorry. We seldom get visitors down here. I forget sometimes. Can I get you a glass of water?"  
  
Jack mopped his brow with a handkerchief and turned to face the doctor once more, his complexion ashy gray. "What else did you find during the autopsy?"  
  
"For a women of 51, she was in remarkably fit condition," Dr. Legrare resuming his litany. "Indicators suggested that she carried multiple pregnancies to term, delivering one through C-section. No sign of broken bones or significant injuries, just the bullet wound which caused her demise.  
  
"One more thing," he added rifling through the sheaf of papers clipped to the board. "A point of interest. Any issue would likely share many of the same Rambaldi-relevant genetic traits, but the file makes no mention of them. Do you know if Irina Derevko was survived by any children?"  
  
"A daughter, and apparently, a son," Jack replied tersely. "I'd like to see the body."  
  
"I'm not sure that is a good idea--that is, I mean to say--" Legrare stuttered.  
  
"Don't trouble yourself on my account, doctor. Something I ate disagreed with me," Jack stated dismissively.  
  
Legrare passed a physician's practiced eye over Jack, and read determination in his face and resolve in his stance. "We've finished the autopsy. You'll find a cross-like incision along the sternum and across the chest and the internal organs have been removed, but the rest of the body is intact."  
  
He pulled back the sheet and said over his shoulder, "If you have any questions, I'll be in the outer office."  
  
Cold white light spilled over the table. It was Laura--not Irina Derevko-- Jack saw before him. Older, with a few more lines etched around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, but the same woman he had met on the stone balustrade so many years ago. The same expressive eyebrows, the same straight, aquiline nose, the same full mouth. He half expected her to open her eyes, confident that if she did so, the same doe-eyes she shared with their daughter would gaze back at him, alight with tenderness, anger, passion, humor.  
  
All the emotions which accompanied the news of his wife's death so many years ago, engulfed him once more, and he shuddered.  
  
"How did we come to this? Laura--luve"  
  
He gently pulled the cover over her and walked back through the sealed door directly to Dr. Legrare's office.  
  
"Was anything found on the body?" he asked curtly.  
  
"Some personal effects. Would you like to see them?"  
  
Dr. Legrare patted his pockets and then pulled a small plastic bag from his left breast pocket and emptied the contents onto Jack's palm: a pair of diamond earrings and a small, highly burnished wedding band.  
  
Jack rolled the diamond earrings with a finger tip. Laura had said her mother had given them to her the day she graduated from college, and he wondered now if that, too, had been a lie. He picked up the wedding band in his left hand, almost gingerly, as if the gold might melt in his grasp. He held the ring up to the buzzing florescent light and gazed at the inscription inside, worn, but still visible after all this time:  
  
JDB 6/19/73 my luve is a red, red, rose.  
  
For almost thirty years, despite deceits too numerous to catalogue, she had kept her wedding ring. Jack's brow furrowed.  
  
His mind flashed back to his daughter's retelling of her last moments with her mother. Irina had given her a message—"Tell him...you must tell him...love..."  
  
Luve.  
  
The only endearment he had used throughout their marriage, taken from the title of Burns' immortal poem, which he had had inscribed in the ring he now held in his hands.  
  
"You must tell him...luve."  
  
Could he trust this woman? She who had betrayed him, abandoned their daughter and sacrificed countless lives to serve her cause, when Sydney's life hung in the balance? Had love won out in her death?  
  
A mist formed over Jack's eyes so that the ring seemed to dance before his eyes, as he repeated under his breath, "unto whom duty whispers low: 'thou must!' and who replies 'I can!'"  
  
"Did you find something significant?" Dr. Legrare inquired, watching him curiously, pulling absentmindedly on his ear.  
  
Jack paused close to Dr. Legrare and taking in a deep breath said, "You've been very helpful. Thank you."  
  
He shook the doctor's chill hand and stepped through the doors. Stony faced, he ignored the security guard's nod, and proceeded down the hall, pulling out his cell phone.  
  
"Get me Devlin. Tell him to relay the codes to Dixon and order the strike." 


	25. Phase One

The CIA's action was forceful and swift. In a matter of hours SWAT teams around the globe had mounted simultaneous attacks on all the Alliance cells, capturing or killing almost all of the leaders. Sydney, Vaughn and Jack insisted on being part of the team to take SD-6. Amid the screams of terrified office workers, bursts of gunfire, and barked commands, they stormed Arvin Sloane's office only to find it empty. Lowering her gun, Sydney gazed around her, unable to take it all in.  
  
The scene was strangely reminiscent of the action the CIA had taken to wrest control of SD-6 from McKenas Cole. But this time she had come, not to aid her co-workers, but to bring them to justice. Dixon met her gaze from across the room, where he was talking to an agent in SWAT gear, with a bittersweet smile.  
  
Sydney gave him a weary half-smile in return, but she turned away, tears in her eyes. Without Arvin Sloane in custody could it really be termed a victory? What about "Il Dire" and the second prophecy?  
  
She thought of her mother's sacrifice. Irina had wanted them to bring down the Alliance together. Syd knew her own reasons for doing so--to avenge Danny's death, to annihilate Arvin Sloane, to safeguard a future for herself and Vaughn. She had never learned her mother's reasons.  
  
Kicking through the debris in what had been her father's office, she was hailed by the unmistakable voice of Marshall J. Flinkman.  
  
"Syd? Syd, is that you?"  
  
"Marshall!" she cried, whirling around.  
  
The hands of SD-6's master tech specialist were shackled and wrenched behind him as he was being roughly led away by a SWAT team officer.  
  
"S-Syd, what's going on?" he asked, his voice trembling.  
  
"Marshall, everything's going to be alright," she assured him. "It's okay," she said quickly, turning to the agent in SWAT gear. "I can vouch for this man."  
  
"Things weren't what they seemed," Sydney rushed to explain. "SD-6 was working with the Alliance, not against it. My father, Dixon, and I have been working undercover to bring Sloane to justice. The CIA will debrief you, and I promise I'll do everything I can to see that they hire you. You've got admirers in the CIA already."  
  
"Really?" Marshall said delightedly.  
  
"Yeah, I've even heard some of the tech guys formed a fan club," Sydney teased. "They'll all be really excited to meet you."  
  
"A fan club?" he echoed, but then his face fell. "You're not pulling my leg, are you? Finding out the organization you've been working for is evil makes a person, you know, not want to believe everything they hear."  
  
Tears sprang to Sydney's eyes, and she shook her head. "It's the truth."  
  
"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you then," he replied hopefully, and raised one of his shackled hands to wave good-bye as the agent in SWAT gear lead him away.  
  
Sydney nodded, watching him go. Her eyes traveled around the now deserted work room and lighted at once upon Vaughn, who had just entered from the opposite end. The stunned look of confusion and disbelief on his face mirrored her own. Their eyes met, and she was buoyed up and suffused with a warm, soft glow.  
  
Slowly they started to move toward each other through the debris, almost as if pulled together, and then she was in his arms.  
  
Vaughn reached up to caress her cheek and kissed her tenderly, threading his hand through her hair. When they broke apart, each breathing heavily, he brushed his lips against her forehead, shut his eyes, and rested his forehead against hers.  
  
When she opened her eyes, Vaughn was looking at her with a wide, incandescent grin on his face. She couldn't help but grin back.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We've done everything backwards. A ring and an engagement, but no first date."  
  
Sydney laughed. "So what you're saying is--"  
  
"How about those Kings?"  
  
"I'd like that," Sydney said softly. "I'd like that a lot."  
  
It was not a complete victory, but it was more than they had dared to hope for even a few days previously. There would be time enough to capture Sloane, delve into the existence of a second prophecy, and deal with "Il Dire." For the moment they would bask, for as long as fate would allow, in the realization that one phase of their life was now over and that a second, so full of possibility, was about to begin.  
  
After an excruciatingly long debriefing, attended by all the agents who participated in the raid on SD-6, Vaughn offered to drive Sydney home. They had driven no more than a few blocks when her cell phone went off.  
  
"Syd? Oh, my God, Syd? Finally!" Francie exclaimed. Her voice was muffled as if she'd been crying.  
  
"Fran? What's wrong!"  
  
"It's Will. They instituted a mandatory drug test for all employees at the paper recently. The drug test was today--and he failed it! Then they found heroin in his desk drawer and claimed he was shooting up at work! They called the police, and he was lead away in front of his co-workers."  
  
"Oh, Francie! That's horrible! Where is he now?"  
  
"He's down at police headquarters. I was just on my way down there, but they won't release him without bail--and I have absolutely no money to get him out! It's all tied up in the restaurant, and today I got this notice that they're shutting it down before it even opens!" she wailed.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The city says that the neighborhood is no longer zoned for small businesses and that the restaurant failed its building code inspection. I won't even be able to recoup my investment!"  
  
"What about the private investor who contacted you?" Sydney asked with trepidation.  
  
"I can't contact him. His cell phone number's been disconnected, his email's been terminated, and the address he gave me for Edward Sorenson & Sons is actually a sushi place! It's like he was never there to begin with! Syd, I've been so incredibly stupid and naïve."  
  
"That's so not true," Sydney replied soothingly. She knew whose fault it was, and it wasn't Francie's.  
  
Jack Bristow had taken extreme measures to make sure all ties her roommate had to Sark were severed, and once her father's plans were set in motion, the consequences multiplied inexorably like cascading dominos.  
  
"So, you'll come help me get Will out of jail?" Francie pleaded.  
  
"Of course, give me the address of the precinct where he's being held," she glanced at Vaughn. "I'll meet you there."  
  
Francie was sitting on a worn wooden bench against the wall, when she spotted Sydney wending her way through the crowded precinct.  
  
"Syd! I am SO glad you are here!" she said jumping up and hugging her. It was only then that she noticed the tall, good-looking man with green eyes who stood behind her roommate.  
  
"Fran, I want you to meet a friend of mine. He was driving me home from work when you called. He's offered to help us get Will out of jail."  
  
"Hi," Vaughn said, smiling, more nervous than he had anticipated now that he was finally being introduced to Sydney's roommate and best friend. "I'm Michael Vaughn. I work with Sydney. You must be Francie," he said extending his hand.  
  
"It's nice to meet you. Syd's mentioned you, but she's never told us your name," Francie said with a hint of her usual mischievous smile, and Vaughn shot Sydney an amused look. "Do you work in the legal department at the bank? Can you defend Will against the drug charges?"  
  
"No," Vaughn answered truthfully, "but I'll see what I can do about taking care of his bail."  
  
"Thank you," Sydney said simply, and Vaughn smiled, holding her gaze for a moment before turning towards the information desk.  
  
Sydney sat down beside Francie and put an arm around her. Francie shut her eyes and slumped against her, and Sydney watched as Vaughn drew the sergeant aside and discreetly showed him his CIA identification. The sergeant looked at the identification and then at Vaughn, and motioned for him to follow.  
  
"He's the one, isn't he?" Francie asked, opening her eyes and sitting up a few moments later. "He's the picture frame guy. I can tell. It's in his smile and the way he looks at you."  
  
Sydney nodded and felt herself blush under her friend's scrutiny.  
  
"Something happened between you two on your business trip, didn't it?" Francie exclaimed. "I knew it! I knew just by the way you talked about him that something was bound to happen between you two, never mind that stupid rule about not dating co-workers. But what are they going to say about it at work? Are you two going to get into trouble?"  
  
"I don't know. Actually, as of today, I don't work for Credit Dauphine anymore--"Sydney stated, and for the first time she realized that this was true. No more pretense. No more fabricated business trips or excuses about working late. She was free. She had done what she has set out to do, she had brought down SD-6.  
  
"Oh, my God! Syd! You finally quit your job! No, wait! Don't tell me--they fired both of you because you broke the rules?"Francie surmised. "That figures. That just figures."  
  
"No, no," Sydney protested. "I am not supposed to tell anyone this," she said launching into the alibi the CIA had devised, "but Credit Dauphine is under investigation for fraudulent accounting practices--Enron, Tyco, you know. Everyone not indicted was let go, and they shut the doors this afternoon. It will be all over the news tomorrow."  
  
"Great!" Francie replied sarcastically. "So Will's a heroin addict, I'm bankrupt, and you're unemployed. At least one of us is getting laid!"  
  
Sydney didn't even crack a smile. Instead she looked stricken by her friend's words. "Francie, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how bad I feel about Will and the restaurant---"  
  
Francie stared at her. "Syd, how can you apologize? If anyone deserves to be happy, it's you," she said, putting a comforting hand on her arm. "Michael seems really amazing, I've seen you together for all of--what? 5 minutes?--and I can tell you were made for each other. So, don't let any of this other stuff drag you down and get in the way of your happiness. It's not like you could have done anything to prevent it, right? None of us could. It's just life. But, it's strange, you know? Everything was going along so great with the restaurant and Will winning his award--and you just wouldn't think it could come crashing down like this," she said wistfully. "I mean, Will an addict? Who would have believed that?"  
  
Sydney nodded and hugged her with all her might. Francie deserved to know the truth about the danger she was in, simply as a result of their friendship, and she knew this meant that her roommate would soon have to make her own choice about whether to go into witness protection or live within the shadow of the CIA. Either way, she would see that Francie received restitution, and if the CIA had to go into the restaurant business to do it, then it wouldn't be the strangest investment they had ever made to preserve a cover.  
  
Francie let her go, and she blew her nose and brushed away her tears. When she looked up, Will was being led out into the lobby by the sergeant, with Vaughn following a few steps behind.  
  
A few minutes earlier the sergeant had led Vaughn to the cell block. Will was seated on the bunk attached to the wall and rose when he saw Vaughn approach. The two men gazed at each other through the bars, as the sergeant unlocked the cell.  
  
"Looks like you've got friends in high places," the sergeant observed dryly. "Too bad he didn't get here earlier."  
  
"Yeah," Will said, fingering his jaw, a nervous habit he had acquired over the last few weeks, but he didn't smile.  
  
Vaughn noticed that the puffiness and discoloration around Will's jaw had disappeared, but he very much doubted the psychological trauma from his encounter with "Suit and Glasses" had faded as fast.  
  
Will was wearing his usual tweed blazer and corduroy pants, but they hung on him, and he looked ill and haggard--every inch the strung-out heroin addict the CIA had set him up to be. Knowing Jack Bristow's thoroughness, he would bet that Will's withdrawal symptoms would not be simulated.  
  
Vaughn glanced at the sergeant. "Could you give us a minute?"  
  
The sergeant acquiesced and left the two men alone. Vaughn turned to Will and swallowed uncomfortably. "Listen, I am sorry you had to go through this. If we had thought there was any other way--"  
  
Will shrugged. "I know. Jack's already explained, and I told Syd I'd do anything, just as long as they didn't send me into witness protection." Then he looked at Vaughn more sharply. "So--you and Syd--you're together now?"  
  
Vaughn paused, not sure what Will meant by this question. Was he simply asking if Sydney had accompanied him to the police station, or did he somehow sense that their relationship had deepened considerably since Taipei?  
  
"Yes," Vaughn said deliberately, answering both questions. "Syd's waiting with Francie out in the lobby. They're both worried about you."  
  
"Well, at least Syd knows the truth," Will replied bitterly. "but what do I tell Francie? Or my family?"  
  
He turned to follow the sergeant down the hall, but Vaughn put a hand on his arm.  
  
"Wait, Will, I want you to know you're not alone in this. You have the CIA's backing, and I'll help you anyway I can. I've already started working on getting you a job as an analyst. I can't promise anything, but I think you'll like the work, and I have a feeling you'll be good at it. I know it's not much compensation for what you've been through, but it's something."  
  
"That's really nice,"Will shot back, "but tell me: are you doing this because you're a nice guy or because you want to impress Syd?"  
  
Vaughn drew himself up and glared at Will, his lips compressed. "Hey, if you have a problem with me, I understand that," he said, his eyes flashing, "but let's at least be civil around Syd."  
  
Will nodded warily, struck by how much Vaughn resembled a young Jack Bristow, though neither his features nor his usual demeanor would normally hint at such a similarity.  
  
Both men turned to go, walking down the corridor side by side. The sergeant led them through the precinct and out into the lobby. Sydney spotted them first and with a cry, launched herself into Will's arms.  
  
Will wrapped his arms around Sydney, breathing in the almond vanilla scent of her skin and the faint scent of freesia still noticeable in her hair, holding her just a few seconds longer than he held Francie, who quickly supplanted her in his arms.  
  
Vaughn watched the scene with more than a little pique. It reminded him of Sydney's reunion with the battered and bloodied reporter in Taipei, and he remembered how taken aback he had been when Will offered him his hand shortly after and thanked him for the role he had played in his rescue. He suspected that those few moments had been a better indication of Will's true character than the exchange they had just had in the cell block, and with this realization, his resentment towards Will slowly dissipated and then disappeared. It might take a while, but he could envision a time when they might become friends and not simply rivals for Sydney's love. However, that would not necessarily make the next few weeks easier on either of them, as they both negotiated their new roles in Sydney's life  
  
All four returned to Sydney's apartment. Will was tired and clearly experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Francie grabbed towels from the hall closet and followed him into the bathroom despite his feeble protests. She emerged some time later, her expressive eyes filled with worry, and noticed Sydney and Vaughn sitting awkwardly on the couch, not touching, and looking miserable.  
  
"How is he?" Vaughn asked, standing up.  
  
"He'll be alright," she assured. "I'll stay with him, but there's not much else you guys can do, and I can't imagine you'd get any sleep if you stayed here tonight. Maybe you two can stay somewhere else for the night?" she suggested, hoping she wasn't assuming too much about their relationship.  
  
But they both simply nodded. Sydney packed a few things, moving about her room like a somnambulist, and returned to the living room. Vaughn took the duffle bag from her hands and said good-bye to Francie. Sydney gave her roommate one last hug, telling her to reach her on her cell if Will needed anything, and then followed Vaughn out to the car.  
  
He was resting both hands on top of the steering wheel and his head was against his chest when she got in.  
  
"Do you want me to drive?" Sydney asked gently.  
  
Vaughn shook his head, as much to shake off his fatigue as to answer her question. He rubbed his eyes and turned to her, looking abashed.  
  
"I hate to ask this of you, but I've got to check in on Weiss. Do you mind if we swing by the hospital first?"  
  
Eric! Of course! In the aftermath of the day's events, Sydney had forgotten that he, too, had almost been a casualty of this crusade. Sark had shot Weiss in cold blood, and his life had literally hung by a thread--the Kevlar thread of the jackets the CIA had specifically manufactured for their agents, based on a stolen plan for a vest Marshall had been designing for SD-6. He'd called it chain-lamé. What was it her mother had said? "We are the heroines of our own romances; the heroes of our own quests." How many more people they loved would suffer before this quest was over and they could rest, simply rest, in each other's arms?  
  
She glanced at Vaughn. They were both so exhausted. How many ways are there to express tiredness? She felt exhaustion deep in her bones; her body felt deadened, her motions heavy and sluggish; and her mind seemed tethered tenuously to her body like a balloon attached by the merest bit of string.  
  
"Syd?" Vaughn asked, his brows furrowed. "Did you hear what I said? You looked like you were a thousand miles away. Why don't we just go to my apartment, and I'll go to the hospital later."  
  
"No," she protested. "I want to go with you. We can stop on the way." She reached over and touched his hand. "Francie appreciated all your help with Will, and he was grateful, even if he didn't say it."  
  
"Yeah, well that's a whole new learning curve, isn't it?" Vaughn said, shaking his head. He squeezed her hand, a gentle smile in his eyes. "Francie and Will got game. She'll take good care of him. You don't always have to be the strong one, you know," he added quietly.  
  
Sydney smiled and interlaced her fingers with his. "Neither do you."  
  
They grew quiet and drove to the hospital in silence, each drawing strength simply from the other's presence.  
  
Weiss was allowed only one visitor at a time, and Vaughn went in first, shocked by what he saw.  
  
Weiss was lying in the hospital bed, unrecognizably pale and drawn, surrounded by tubes and wires attached to various machines monitoring vital functions. Vaughn approached the bed, not wishing to disturb him if he were asleep, but Weiss slowly opened his eyes and smiled.  
  
"Hey, how was your little tryst? I swear if you tell me you were gone all that time and didn't bang each other like bunny rabbits, I'll get out of this bed--"  
  
"Take it easy," Vaughn said, smiling. "Waste your energy on me, and you won't have any energy left to take on Syd. She's right outside the door, waiting to see you."  
  
"We have to stop meeting like this. Last time I saw you, you were the one in the hospital bed," Weiss wheezed.  
  
"Yeah, this is the last time I'll ask you to housesit for me," Vaughn said, doing his best to keep up his side of the banter. "How damn hard can it be?"  
  
They both fell silent not knowing what else to say.  
  
Weiss cleared his throat, His voice was growing hoarse from the effort it took to communicate. "If Syd's with you, that means--"  
  
"The takedown was successful. It's gone. All of it."  
  
"Sloane?"  
  
"Still at large. Sark, too," he added, knowing this would be Weiss's next question and wishing like hell he had a different answer.  
  
"Fucking bastard. Irina?"  
  
"Dead."  
  
"Mike--about Denpassar and Haladki--you know I never meant--"  
  
"I know."  
  
"I wanted to make sure you knew."  
  
"Eric, I know." Vaughn repeated firmly. It still stung him that Weiss had reported him to Haladki, when he discovered he was concealing Jack and Sydney's plans to rescue Will from the CIA, but he had to admit Weiss had been right. He'd put both his and Sydney's life at risk by breaking protocol in Taipei. It could all have ended much differently.  
  
He glanced down at the floor and then at Weiss, struggling to contain his emotions. "I never thanked you for sending Dixon to Taipei. He freed Sydney before Jack or I could reach her and probably saved all our lives."  
  
Weiss gave a low chuckle. "I knew if I sent Dixon to Taipei, he'd haul your asses back here. We should have brought him in a long time ago. Just 'cause you got the girl, doesn't mean you know everything."  
  
Vaughn smiled, and Weiss closed his eyes, too weary to continue the conversation.  
  
Vaughn turned to go, and as he opened the door, he heard Weiss call after him hoarsely.  
  
"Kiss that gorgeous girlfriend of yours for me."  
  
A few moments later Sydney peeked her head in and then ventured inside. She stood by Weiss's bedside and took his hand.  
  
"How are you?" she asked softly.  
  
"Alive. Next time you see Marshall, pass on my regards."  
  
"Weiss, I'm SO sorry," she said squeezing his hand, tears springing to her eyes.  
  
"Don't be," he whispered. "You and Vaughn--I love ya both, you guys know that, right?" he added huskily. "I'd do just about anything not to see you guys hurt."  
  
Sydney's blinked away her tears and reached out to stroke his hair. "You're not getting mushy on us, are you, Weiss?" she asked, straining to keep her quivering voice light. "It must be all those painkillers talking."  
  
"Damn straight. Had to get Mikey out of here before we both started blubbering."  
  
They both chuckled.  
  
Sydney smiled through her tears. "Get some rest."  
  
"You, too." Weiss whispered and closed his eyes as Sydney left the room.  
  
About twenty minutes later, Vaughn and Sydney pulled up in front of his building, in the exact spot Jack had used to stake out the apartment only days earlier. Vaughn grabbed Sydney's bag, and they headed into the building and up the stairs to his apartment. Jack had ordered the locks changed, and the shiny metallic key balked at first and would not go in the lock. Finally with a good deal of jiggling, the key caught and the lock turned, allowing their entrance.  
  
Vaughn gazed around the room. Something seemed odd and slightly out of place. Was the carpet a shade darker, or was it simply exhaustion playing tricks on his eyes? He crossed the room, for the moment forgetting everything else, and scanned the book shelf. There it was, extending slightly over the edge of the bookcase, as if someone had been interrupted while putting it back. The Lais of Marie de France. Jack's reference to Gawain's lament had not been accidental. Vaughn smiled wryly and pushed it back into place. He turned to look at Sydney, who was gazing around the room, her eyes dazed with fatigue.  
  
At any other time, she would have been ecstatic at this glimpse into Vaughn's personal space, but she was simply too exhausted to take it all in. With dull eyes she noted the dark Mission furniture and the walls lined with books, to be thumbed through later, no doubt, over coffee and bagels bought at the corner bakery, but at the moment her attention was caught by the three framed photographs above the sofa, and the sight sent a cold shiver down her back. One was of the Champs Élysée, another was of the Los Angeles skyline at night, and the third was the cottage on Île Mariette they had been forced to flee after having had the most idyllic weekend of their lives. The home they had made love in. The house her mother had been murdered in.  
  
"Don't," Vaughn said, coming up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Come to bed."  
  
Too exhausted to sleep, they made love desperately, trying to push past the numbness and the sorrow and the anger and the pain, their cries and sighs and whispers enveloped in the darkness. Vaughn pounded into her as if he was storming a fortress, and Sydney raked her nails against his back, flipping them over in one deft move and continuing the assault from another direction, whatever it might take to gain them both cathartic release. When they finally collapsed, Sydney's body was racked with sobs, and Vaughn held her.  
  
He knew she was crying for Will and for Weiss, for Francie and Marshall and Emily Sloane, for Jean-Luc Brochet, Michel Delorme and Marie Arnault, for his own father and hers, for Irina, and for the pall spread over their own uncertain future.  
  
He swept away the tangle of hair from her tear-stained cheeks, whispering soothing sounds, not quite English and not quite French, when the words of the prayer Sydney had said on their way home from Melen Loar, that deep, starry night when the cloister bells tolled in the distance and the universe seemed so close around them, came unbeckoned to his lips.  
  
"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night," he whispered softly, "and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, all for your love's sake. Amen."  
  
They fell asleep amid the tangle of sheets, bodies spooned together, as the morning light dawned through the window.  
  
Jack had made it a point to check on Sydney early in the day, only to discover from Francie that she was with Vaughn. Having heard the knock at the door, Will had come out of the back bedroom, bleary eyed from his torturous night and had squinted at Jack. Jack nodded gravely at him in return, turned to Francie, and apologized for disturbing them.  
  
It was now 3 o'clock in the afternoon. He sat in the Town Car in front of Vaughn's apartment watching. He was not alone. The little white bull dog sat companionably next to his leg.  
  
"So, Donovan, are you ready for this homecoming?" he reached down and stroked the dog behind the ears. "I'm not sure I am either. Mrs. Zhang has grown...used to you. But, it's time, isn't it?"  
  
He was coming up the stairs, Donovan bounding ahead just as Vaughn opened the door. He was in his pajama bottoms, his hair disheveled and his face unshaven, stooping down to get the newspaper. Donovan immediately ran to his master, barking ecstatically, licking his face with a joyous abandon.  
  
Vaughn's chest was bare, except for the bandages that still circled his ribs, and when he wrapped his arms around the dog, chuckling, Jack clearly saw the avenging angel, flaming sword in hand, inked on his arm. Glancing through the doorway and into the apartment, from his position on the stairs, he saw Sydney poised over a stack of novels on the kitchen table, reading while simultaneously spreading a bagel with strawberry jam and singing along with Ella Fitzgerald, whose cheery voiced wafted out from the stereo speakers. She was wearing a striped pajama top and her bare legs were wound around the legs of the kitchen chair, appearing completely at home.  
  
This glimpse of his daughter combined with the sight of the emblem emblazoned on Vaughn's arm quelled his worst apprehensions.  
  
He cleared his throat, as he ascended the steps and Vaughn straightened up.  
  
The two men gazed at each other uncomfortably, as Donovan stood looking back and forth between them, wagging his tail.  
  
"Would you like to come in?" Vaughn ventured, at a loss for how to accommodate Jack Bristow in such a situation. "I can get Sydney, if you need to talk with her."  
  
"No, that won't be necessary. Just tell her I--stopped by," Jack replied and turned to go.  
  
"Jack?" Vaughn called after him, and the older man looked back over his shoulder.  
  
"Thanks," Vaughn said quietly.  
  
But instead of giving him the curt nod he expected in acknowledgement, Jack Bristow turned around.  
  
"You're welcome--Vaughn."  
  
He turned to leave, but before he did, Vaughn thought he saw the older man smile. The light in the hallway was too dim to be sure, but there had definitely been a warmth in his voice, an almost--fatherly--tone. Vaughn grinned, called Donovan inside, and shut the door. 


	26. A Glass of Chateau Petrus

A willowy young man entered the York Gentlemen's Club, and after greeting the maitre d', threaded his way purposefully through the tables towards the slight figure of a middle-aged man expertly swirling a wine glass, his greedy eyes savoring the garnet liquid in anticipation. The young man sat down, and a sommelier appeared to pour a glass from the bottle of Chateau Petrus '82 that rested on the table to the left of the older man.  
  
The young man smiled with sincere appreciation. "You remembered. How truly thoughtful."  
  
Raising the glass to his nose, Arvin Sloane inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in reverence. "It's a pleasure to share a passion with someone so...promising." He tilted the glass to his lips and inhaled a stream of radiant liquid with a swift sure breath of air. The wine flowed over his palate, quickening every taste bud with penetrating flavors of ripe mulberry, black currant and spicy vanilla oak. "Petrus was the first great Bordeaux I tasted from my father's collection--the inimitable Vintage 1947. I shared the bottle with him just before I left for school in 1965. Sublime. Unbelievably, he still has 2 bottles from the case."  
  
Sark settled into the deep plush seat, repeating the actions of the older man with a dancer's grace, as he too savored the moment. "It's pleasant to share a bottle of wine with one's father, Mr. Sloane. A most inviting memory."  
  
"Yes," he concurred pensively.  
  
Then his gaze refocused on the sardonic face of the man across from him. "I trust recruitment was successful?"  
  
"Mr. Weiss proved uncooperative and had to be neutralized. There was progress with Ms. Calfo, but the operation was compromised. Sadly, Edward Sorenson can no longer pursue a business relationship with Ms. Calfo, who no doubt believes she was a victim of fraud."  
  
Sloane frowned briefly, "You warned me about the imminent fall of SD-6, and for that I am grateful." Replacing the glass on the table, he leaned in, "But I am wondering, Mr. Sark, if you can live up to your promise."  
  
Smiling only with his eyes, Sark said, "What promise would that be?"  
  
"You promised me Irina Derevko. I have seen nothing yet that suggests you have followed through on your end of the--arrangement."  
  
Sark withdrew a red velvet bag from his pocket and handed it across the table. "There were complications."  
  
Sloane quirked an eyebrow and removed the contents. It was the Delorme ring. The ruby glowed vermilion, while the pearls on either side of it shone iridescent in the soft light of the green banker's lamp on the table.  
  
"Things took an unexpected turn on Île Mariette. My--late--employer was a casualty of her emotions and a misdirected shot. I made my escape expeditiously. If you think I've made the wrong choice, return the ring, and I will make good on my original promise."  
  
"Late?" A momentary expression of shock passed across Sloane's face. Trying to seem casual, he slipped the ring back into its velvet bag and placed it in his breast pocket.  
  
"Tragically, yes," replied the young man who showed no discernible emotion.  
  
"That won't be necessary. You acted wisely. It is still possible to acquire what we need to construct 'Il Dire.' It will simply take--finesse."  
  
He raised his glass for another appreciative sip.  
  
Sark looked amused. "Finesse is a relative term, Mr. Sloane."  
  
Sloane smiled. "Indeed. I assume Irina gave you the ring, when you threatened to kill Sydney?"  
  
"I took the ring from Sydney. Let's just say when given the choice whether to sacrifice the life of Michael Vaughn or the ring he gave her, she chose the latter."  
  
"Michael Vaughn gave Sydney the ring?" Sloane asked sharply, putting down his glass.  
  
"Yes." Sark narrowed his eyes. "It seemed to shock my late employer, as well. Irina spoke of a second prophecy--one involving a Red Lady and her Azure Knight. She seemed to believe that it referred to none other than Sydney Bristow and the valiant Mr. Vaughn," he mocked. "This surprises you?"  
  
"It does. It changes--everything. Absolutely--everything," Sloane replied, stroking his chin and staring long into the glistening crystal of the Waterford flower vase.  
  
Sark watched the older man as he pondered the implications of the news. He was a patient man but he had his own agenda to pursue. "Having spent the better part of your life pursuing the arcane, Mr. Sloane, I'm sure this revelation is of vital significance. However, for the benefit of someone not so--adept--in spiritual matters, would you care to illuminate?"  
  
"There are two prophecies--or more accurately--two variants of the same prophecy, each involving the same key figures, but predicting vastly different outcomes. There was such acrimonious debate over which prophecy was authentic, it caused a schism among the followers of Rambaldi. A group of adherents of the second prophecy fled to France in the 15th century and found asylum in the courts of Louis XI. It was believed that one of these followers had absconded with Rambaldi's signet ring, an artifact purported to be a catalyst in bringing the second prophecy to pass. Some believe Louis XI founded the Ordre de Saint-Michel and gave the ring to one of the knights for safe-keeping. The identity of this knight and the whereabouts of the ring were never discovered and some doubted the ring was ever brought to France. It appears, Mr. Sark, that you have discovered what many Rambaldi devotees consider to be the Holy Grail."  
  
"Knights, damsels, prophecies--a medieval romance to rival le Morte d'Arthur," Sark said, with an ironic arc of the eyebrows.  
  
"You mock, but you yourself look as if you've--crossed swords--with someone," Sloane replied, a smug smile appearing on his lips.  
  
Sark touched the crescent-shaped cut on his right cheek, still livid and tender to the touch, and frowned, not deigning to reply.  
  
Instead, he shifted position and cleared his throat.  
  
"Since you seem to have reassessed the value of my service, perhaps you will entertain a certain proposition I have in mind," he queried. "As Irina's second-in-command, I stand to acquire not only her position as The Man, but the largest collection of Rambaldi artifacts in the world, second only to your own. Therefore, I propose that we merge our resources. We will accomplish far more as allies, than we will as rivals. Consider the ring a gesture of good-faith, if you will."  
  
"Such a partnership would seem to have its advantages."  
  
Sark smiled. "One could even say that it was--fated."  
  
"You are a man of many surprises, Mr. Sark," Sloane said approvingly. "You remind me of myself when I first started out. I predict you'll go far. A toast to our partnership," he said, raising his glass  
  
Sark tilted his head in acknowledgement and raised his own glass in turn. "Then let me take this opportunity to make you aware of something I have only just discovered myself that might help--cement--our future relationship."  
  
He withdrew a file from his jacket and handed it to Sloane. Enclosed was a copy of Irina Derevko's KGB file and a Russian birth certificate, dated March 11, 1981, issued to a child born within a high-security Russian prison and signed by the warden. The third set of documents was a series of genetic tests.  
  
"A son!" Sloane murmured. "Who is the father?" he queried, thinking of the men in Irina's life at that time: Jack, Alexander Khasinau--who knew which others?  
  
"I narrowed the possibilities to two men--her husband or her KGB recruiter." Something indefinable flickered in the young man's eyes for a moment and then disappeared, replaced by his usual cool demeanor. "When I dug a bit deeper into her past, however, a third possibility, later confirmed by genetic tests, came to light."  
  
Sloane lowered his wine glass, his hand shaking, and he looked at the insolent young man across the table, as if for the first time. Sark stared back, his piercing blue eyes revealing just a hint of droll irony.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Shall we order?" asked Mr. Sark as he raised the over-sized menu to a position concealing his face.  
  
Sloane counted back nine months from the date given on the birth certificate. Late June. 1980. Paris. The intense excitement of their secret discoveries, bursting into a passion they could never acknowledge for fear of hurting the people they most loved. She disappeared 6 weeks later. He never knew.  
  
A son. 


	27. Closure

Jack felt her presence in the threshold states between waking and sleeping. Her face filled his dreams. It had been a week since the Alliance had fallen, eight days since he had drawn the sheet over her face.  
  
Laura.  
  
--o--  
  
He awoke just as light was creeping through the blinds. Early mornings had always been their time. Although both congenitally early risers, they would quite often linger in bed until half past six, and then get up and have coffee together on the wrap-around porch, looking out onto the tidewater in Virginia, or later, when they moved to LA, on the patio facing the garden, talking of this and that, or sitting in companionable silence until Sydney would wake and run out to join them. It was only then that the day officially began, with all its hustle of morning cereal, lunch money, hair ribbons, and permission slips.  
  
He went quietly to the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee from the elegant steel and glass Braun maker that brewed automatically every morning at 6 a.m., not wanting to count how many years it had been since he had shared the reverence of dawn with anyone. Mrs. Zhang, his duteous housekeeper, knew from long experience that it was easiest to leave him alone in the morning. There were some mornings he might have preferred company, but he did not dare disrupt a pattern they had sustained over many years.  
  
He walked to his study. Setting his coffee cup on the desk, he clicked on the lamp and sank heavily into the leather chair. Illuminated within the halo of the desk lamp was a manila folder containing fragmentary printouts-- all that the CIA had been able to retrieve from SD-6 pertaining to Arvin Sloane's search for Rambaldi artifacts. They would not have even this much, if it wasn't for Marshall. Thanks to Sydney's recommendation and Jack's own insistence that the CIA would benefit enormously from his knowledge and creativity, Marshall's approval came through more quickly than anyone thought possible. His first assignment was to reverse-engineer the encryption he had designed in hopes that the files would provide the CIA with clues to Sloane's whereabouts and his present activities. There were some in the CIA who were cautiously optimistic that Sloane had been driven underground, but Jack knew better. Arvin Sloane was hardly defeated, he was simply regrouping, marshalling his resources for the next battle.  
  
He took a sip of coffee and scanned the contents of the folder. As he read, several pieces of the puzzle began coming together. Sloane had recently hired Yuri Karpachev, a small-time arms dealer, to obtain a Rambaldi treatise on the human heart. However, what Arvin didn't know was that Karpachev owed Jack, and he had paid on the old debt in a discreet phone call just before SD-6 fell.  
  
Yuri's voice had been boisterous but conspiratorial, "You told me to contact you if I heard anything about Rambaldi. Well, your boss wants me to find a book. But I know Arvin Sloane. Heh, I wouldn't live long enough to hand it over. Since I'm fond of breathing, I don't intend to deliver--at least, not to him."  
  
Jack could imagine the big man's face crease into a smile as he revealed he already had several potential buyers for the manuscript. Ilya Shutka, a Russian businessman living in Hong Kong, had been on Karpachev's short list. So had "The Man."  
  
He knew that, as "The Man," Irina had amassed a collection of Rambaldi artifacts second only to Arvin's own. While her obsession derived its impetus from the code her father taught her as a child, Arvin's passion had begun while he was in the Army Corps of Engineers, but it was no less strong than Irina's. Both were bold strategists, adept at psychological and emotional manipulation. Both could be cold, ruthless and single-minded if it served their goals. For the last several decades they had been rivals. Had there been a time when they had been allied?  
  
As he considered the question, one memory stood out. Both she and Arvin loved tennis. Laura played in singles tournaments, while Arvin and Emily often played doubles. Jack himself found little that was redeeming in the sport and did not play, but he took pride in his wife's prowess and attended her matches when he could. When Emily sprained her ankle, Arvin asked Laura to be his partner. It had always been Jack's impression that Laura could barely tolerate Arvin Sloane, though she had adored his wife, so it surprised him when Laura reluctantly agreed. Striving for the same goal, Arvin and Laura were unbeatable. Even as their attention seemed focused entirely on their competitors, they moved in an eerie synchronicity, falling back as the other moved forward, instinctively intuiting the other's actions and anticipating the response from the opposing side. They won all of their sets that day, and at the end of the match, flush from the exertion, Sloane had put his arm around her, and Laura had kissed him on the cheek.  
  
It was only now Jack realized that everything he needed to know about Irina Derevko's relationship with Arvin Sloane was condensed in that one memory. He had no doubt that Arvin Sloane and his wife had been united, at least for a time, in their quest for Rambaldi. In such a searing crucible of obsession, antipathy and distaste had all too easily transformed into passion.  
  
--o--  
  
A few hours later, he stood outside Dr. Barnett's door, dressed in a crisp blue suit, dreading the sixty minutes to come. She invited him in graciously and they sat down, each contemplating the previous session, the risks he had taken, and the great gains--and losses--in the intervening week and a half.  
  
"A lot has happened since we last met," Dr. Barnett said in a low voice. "You should know that the deputy director has given me access to your daughter's statement."  
  
"Then you know about the confrontation with Irina and the events that led to her death."  
  
Dr. Barnett tilted her head and looked appraisingly at Jack. "I know what the report says. What didn't make it into the report, that's what interests me."  
  
Jack eyed her. Once again she demonstrated an unnerving ability to see through his evasive maneuvers.  
  
"Michael Vaughn proposed to Sydney on Île Mariette and gave her a ring that had been in his family for generations. The ring set off an almost Shakespearean series of coincidences. Mr. Vaughn himself was unaware that the ring had once belonged to Rambaldi. Irina, who had come to induce Sydney to join her, was caught completely by surprise--she recognized the ring at once for what it was. Unfortunately," pausing for a moment to steady his voice, "Mr. Sark was there to take advantage of her...quandary."  
  
Dr. Barnett's eyebrows lifted. "Please continue."  
  
"It seems Irina believed she was the subject of a second prophecy. She led her life based on the belief that one day she would acquire the ring that would prove her destiny. Seeing it on her daughter's hand, she capitulated, almost before examining Page 47. She knew Arvin Sloane would stop at nothing to kill Sydney and Agent Vaughn if he knew they were the ones Rambaldi spoke of," he said, his voice weary and heavy with emotion.  
  
"So she gave them the codes that would destroy Arvin Sloane and the Alliance," Dr. Barnett prompted after a moment's pause.  
  
"Evidently, but not before Sark shot her and took the ring. Sydney regained consciousness long enough to speak with her before she ...succumbed."  
  
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said gently.  
  
Jack stared at her, unsure what to say next. He looked down at his hands. "When I went to obtain the autopsy results, Dr. Legrare gave me her personal effects. She had her wedding ring. Speculating if and what it may have meant to her almost thirty years later has been more--painful--than contemplating the years of deceit. When I looked at her, on that slab, it was my wife's face I saw, not the face of the woman who betrayed me."  
  
Dr. Barnett bent over her desk and drew closer to him. "In my experience, there are as many types of love as there are ways to love, Jack. Very few of them are utterly transparent." She paused, gathering her thoughts, "A while ago, when you spoke of Sydney and Vaughn's cover, you said lies can sometimes create a foundation for the truth. A haven. Is it possible that, from Irina's perspective, this was true of your relationship, as well, that her love for you and Sydney was real?"  
  
"I...don't know," he said softly.  
  
She looked at him thoughtfully. Two weeks ago Jack Bristow would have been incapable of making such an admission. She waited for him to continue.  
  
"Irina revealed far more than the existence of a second prophecy that night. She stated that while working for the KGB, she was functionally a double agent for the CIA. She also spoke of her relationship with her handler, William Vaughn. It seems she could share with him what she couldn't with me--the truth," he said, almost choking on the word. His voice took on a harder edge. "While working for the CIA, she was also pursuing her own quest to discover what her father knew of Rambaldi and his inventions. Arvin Sloane has taunted me for some time with the fact that he knew my wife's true identity far earlier than I. I now believe that they may have been working together."  
  
Dr. Barnett shifted and regarded him with rapt attention.  
  
"Irina acknowledged Sark as her son. And in perhaps the cruelest irony, Sark revealed that he knew Arvin Sloane was his father. She did not protest, but only said there were things he did not yet understand." He arched his eyebrows, "So, you could say, Dr. Barnett, that there are many things about my relationship with my wife and her relationship with the other men in her life that are not yet--transparent."  
  
Dr. Barnett sat for a moment collecting her thoughts, then she said, choosing her words carefully, "How does it alter your view of her?"  
  
"I can envision how the woman I knew as my wife and Sydney's mother could be the same woman who sought out William Vaughn as father confessor," he said, his voice cracking, "but I have much more difficulty understanding and forgiving the woman who formed a liaison with a man I believe she loathed to pursue a mutual obsession and that this passion produced a son."  
  
"Whatever her endgame, or however the... dynamics... of her relationships with Arvin Sloane and William Vaughn affected it," he continued, "I am certain that Irina Derevko did not come to Île Mariette to give Sydney the codes. That said, the woman I knew as Laura was fiercely protective of her daughter, and perhaps that was enough reason to provide Sydney with a means to eliminate Sloane and SD-6, to move on with her life, and perhaps even to gain--closure."  
  
Dr. Barnett nodded. It was a far more direct answer than she had come to expect from Jack Bristow, but it was consistent with the changes she saw in him--further evidence that the ramifications of Sydney and Vaughn's confrontation with Irina and Sark on Île Mariette and his viewing of his wife's body had altered him profoundly.  
  
"The risks you took on Sydney and Agent Vaughn's behalf paid off," she observed meditatively. "It seems that even though you were working independently, both you and Irina provided them with the means to start a life together."  
  
Jack thought of the glimpse he had caught of Sydney through the doorway of Vaughn's apartment.  
  
"My daughter is happier now than I have ever seen her," he replied pensively.  
  
"But?"  
  
"When Sydney lost Daniel Hecht and discovered the truth about SD-6, she was a woman to be feared--because she had nothing to lose. But because she has gained everything she desired--Michael Vaughn's love and the destruction of SD-6--she has never been more vulnerable."  
  
"And Agent Vaughn?"  
  
"If he wishes to protect Sydney, he will need to forgo his quest to discover the truth behind his father's murder. Neither he nor Sydney can risk the CIA withdrawing its protection at this juncture."  
  
"So you--edited--their statement before submitting it to the deputy director," she surmised, well acquainted by now with the way Jack's mind worked, "even though an investigation into Irina's association with the CIA may have provided both you and Agent Vaughn with what you both seek-- closure."  
  
"There are certain risks I will not allow my daughter or Agent Vaughn to take. This is one of them. Closure is of no use to them--dead--and that's what they will be without the CIA's continued support."  
  
"What about your own desire to gain closure?  
  
Jack did not answer, preferring to stare stonily into the middle distance.  
  
She gazed at him, troubled, then rose from her chair and pulled a book from the shelf behind her.  
  
"There's something you should know," she said without artifice. "Whether you share it with Sydney--or Agent Vaughn--is up to you."  
  
She withdrew two yellowed sheets of paper buried in the pages of a well- worn volume of poetry--Rilke?--and handed them to him.  
  
The first page was a faded onion-skin copy of an "Eyes Only" communiqué ordering the elimination of an agent who was "obstructing the inner workings and stated aims" of the CIA. Both the names of the agent targeted and the agent ordered to terminate him were blacked out. However, the date typed at the top, Sept. 29, 1976, was just two days before William Vaughn was killed by a CIA sniper, according to Irina.  
  
Whoever had obtained this record had done so at great risk. He looked up at her inquiringly, and moved on to the next document.  
  
The second sheet was an official letter of condolence addressed to Dr. Judith Barnett from the director, expressing his regret over the loss of her husband, David Rutherford, in the line of duty, October 6, 1976--one of the 12 deaths later attributed to Irina Derevko.  
  
"My husband...was the sniper. Irina killed him to avenge William Vaughn," Dr. Barnett stated, her expressive eyes a clear and penetrating blue.  
  
Jack stared back at her, his own eyes heavy, acknowledging the inevitable meaning of the pages. Two thin pieces of paper, two stories told, two lives lost, but only one had been at the hand of Irina Derevko.  
  
Taking a moment to compose the potent jumble of his emotions, he asked achingly, "How long have you known?"  
  
"For...many years," she said, and her voice faltered. "I was told he died a patriot and maybe he was--in the eyes of the CIA." She met his gaze once more. "So you see, I, too, had to reconcile an image of my spouse that bore no resemblance to the person I thought I had married."  
  
She took a deep breath. "The CIA played on my husband's loyalties as much as they did on your wife's, placing them both in untenable situations," she said in a low voice. "The house of cards crashed down on us all. My husband's actions robbed Agent Vaughn of his father and destroyed Irina Derevko's faith in the CIA. Her response deprived me of my husband, an act of vengeance which jeopardized her standing in the CIA and, in turn, led to her extraction by the KGB," she said, her eyes glistening, "and her abandonment of Sydney...and you."  
  
She reached out and took his hand. Startled by the unexpected contact, and unaccountably moved by the compassion he read in her eyes, he gazed at her, his penetrating brown eyes unwavering, if full of tears.  
  
The deception and lies and strategic losses--the futility of it all was staggering. And yet here they sat, almost thirty years later, working for the same organization that had betrayed them. Why? Because for him--and he suspected it was also true for her--it had never been about the Company, really, but loyalty to a higher calling, a life which derived its meaning from service to others, sacrificing oneself for the good of all. How twisted it had all become! Still, they persevered.  
  
He cursed the incestuous nature of CIA relationships, born of close quarters and even more closely held secrets. He now had an explanation for the pain she had worked so hard to conceal and an idea of what it must have cost her personally to help him to navigate his way through his tangled history with Irina. His admiration for her selfless compassion, her intelligence, and her tact only increased.  
  
"Why reveal this to me now?" he asked softly.  
  
She managed a small smile. "You've made me work hard to gain your trust, Jack," she said, "and I've thought long and hard about when and how--even if--I should tell you. But the truth is you've come too far to allow these questions to remain...unresolved. You needed to know the truth."  
  
"To gain closure."  
  
"Yes, for what it's worth, closure."  
  
But he saw something in her eyes that belied the straightforwardness of that explanation. A need to be understood, as well as to understand. He placed his hand over her own. She looked up at him gratefully and then moved back to her seat behind the desk once more.  
  
--o--  
  
He sat up late that night as was his wont, in his study, sipping scotch, unable to sleep, his thoughts harking back to the Rambaldi treatise on the human heart.  
  
According to his followers, Milo Rambaldi was a mystic, a prophet, and a savant. Jack knew Arvin venerated Rambaldi as a man who understood the cycles of history and could harness the technologies of a future age. But that was the difference between him and Arvin. Arvin believed, with the idealism of a fanatic, that such things were possible. Jack knew with the certainty of an embittered realist that they were not. No, if insight into one's own destiny, much less the destiny of all of humankind, could be gained, it was done slowly and torturously, at great cost, and more often than not, understood only in hindsight. If one wanted to know the heart of another person, the journey was even more arduous, the process of discovery of far greater importance than the knowledge derived.  
  
He shook his head and took another sip of scotch. He doubted very much that Rambaldi's treatise on the human heart dealt with the desires, fears, and hopes he and Dr. Barnett had explored that afternoon. Nor would it be an allegorical representation of its dispositions--eros, philia, agape, cupiditas, caritas, compassio, fraternitas--like the folio page he had seen once, many years ago, in the Louvre. Taking into consideration the fifteenth-century savant's penchant for uncanny technological acumen, it was more likely to be a medically accurate schematic drawing of an artificial heart.  
  
The ghastly image of Legrare lifting Irina's heart from the bowl rose unbidden before him, and a wave of nausea rolled over him, just as it had that day in the lab. He had been shocked by its sheer physicality--at once a symbol and a thing unto itself, terrifying and grotesque outside the person who once possessed it--his wife.  
  
With trembling hands, he took a small brass key from his desk drawer and unlocked a secret compartment concealed under the desk. He removed something and held it under the soft light of the desk lamp. It was a gold wedding band with the words "i carry your heart" engraved inside. A quote from yet another e.e cummings poem. Laura's favorite.  
  
He recalled Irina's last words to Sydney: "Good luck, Sweetheart--moya zhizn', moya serdtza." He had taken them for exactly what Sydney had supposed them to be: Russian endearments from her dying mother. But the precise translation had literal truth he hadn't considered: "You are my life, my heart."  
  
The genetic markers, the platelet levels, the striations on the walls of her heart, all of which Rambaldi had predicted, were indicators she shared with her daughter-- and, he thought bitterly--her son.  
  
Could Rambaldi's treatise on the human heart contain the meaning of the markers? What if 'Il Dire' wasn't a weapon or a time machine, as Irina had supposed, but a sophisticated genome sequencer? Dr. Legrare had suggested that Rambaldi had had an understanding of genetics that surpassed even that of the early twenty-first century. Such information, in the wrong hands, could be used to create deadly pathogens, exploit the genetic strengths and frailties of particular individuals, or perhaps even aid in human cloning.  
  
The harsh ring of the phone, strident in the late night stillness of the study, interrupted his thoughts. Jack glanced at his watch: 12:47. He answered, his pulse quickening, thinking immediately of Sydney.  
  
It was Devlin.  
  
Without preamble, he relayed the news. "There's been a raid on the NSA lab where Irina was autopsied, Dr. Legrare was killed--Jack, someone has taken Derevko's heart. Now, before you say anything, we don't know who did it. And, there's nothing you can do here tonight. I've got Bronstein and Phillips on it. I wanted to be the one to tell you."  
  
"Thanks, Ben. I'd like to be the one to tell Sydney."  
  
"If anything..."  
  
"Understood. I'll be in by 6:30." Jack hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, stunned.  
  
Looking again at the inscription on the ring he held in his hand, Jack could feel his heart pounding in his chest--the rhythmic thrumming, so mechanical, beating out Irina's last words--moya zhizn', moya serdtza. The prophecy was not about Irina. It was Irina. Her heart contained the DNA sequence Rambaldi had foretold--for what purpose? His mind raced.  
  
To calibrate the machine.  
  
There could only be one person in all the world with the drive and the means to make this happen. Arvin Sloane had stolen Irina's heart, and he meant to use it to test 'Il Dire.' Everything they had done--all that had happened--had unwittingly brought this to pass.  
  
With a heavy sigh, Jack thought of Sydney and Vaughn, daring to hope for respite, but accepted the truth that there would be no closure, not yet, not for any of them. 


End file.
